


Near Death

by macgyvershe



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock TV
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, BAMF John, M/M, Talk of torture, Torture of Major Character, au sherlock, fighting between Holmes brothers, minor charactor death chapter 10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:26:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/macgyvershe/pseuds/macgyvershe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU Mycroft is very suspicious of the new flatmate of Sherlock's. He has holes in his history and that means one thing; Watson is a dangerous man. A man not to be trusted with his baby brother. Story contains torture of major character, drugged abduction and BAMF John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Dangerous Man

It started the moment that John spoke to Sherlock. Mycroft had monitors where ever Sherlock was known to hang out. Bart’s is rigged with a large network of monitors. It is a good thing too that Mycroft is in a position of power. Keeping tabs on his baby brother is hard enough on the best of days. If he hadn’t had government backing and manpower it would have been impossible.

“I want a full record of John Watson. I’d like to have in on my desk in two hours.”

(-_-)

Anthea brought the file in and Mycroft flipped through it within minutes.

“There are an awful lot of holes in this man’s past.” Mycroft is smelling the ever present rat; the rat that wants his baby brother.

“He seems innocuous enough,” Anthea remarks.

“It’s the innocuous one’s you have to watch out for,” Mycroft’s soft tone turning treacherous.

“I wouldn’t worry too much, Sir. Your brother isn’t the friendly type; he’ll have this Watson running away at full tilt soon enough.”

“I want to put a dark unit on him in any case, just to be sure. I want to know his every move. I really don’t enjoy not knowing what motivates people.”

(-_-)

John knew that something was wrong right away. The war had taught him to trust his instincts and they were shouting at him that he was being tailed and not by amateurs, but MI6 grade personnel. No one knew (it wasn’t in any file, anywhere) but he’d had special training too. He was a doctor and a soldier and really something else entirely, trained at levels that were far superior to these chaps.

He’d moved in with Sherlock, finding comradeship and a strange connection, a strong strange connection with that idiot/genius. Sure he is a bit eccentric, but weren’t all genius’. Look at his younger sister, though he loved her dearly, he couldn’t save her from her self destructive ways, but he is pretty sure he could save Sherlock. Immediately he began strapping on his Browning in the waist holster he used for situations like this. He is watching Sherlock’s back as well as his own. Sherlock is in his element, bounding around London solving cases and being blindingly brilliant. It is then that this government git had him picked up. Picked him up and attempted to intimidate him. John is not easily intimidated. He may be suffering from PTSD, but with Sherlock at his side he most definitely felt like he could cure the common cold and bring about world peace in the blink of a corpse’s eye.

(-_-)

Mycroft was getting edgy and you really didn’t want to piss him off when he is on edge to begin with. “Anthea, I’m not happy with the attitude that I received from Watson. He’s definitely dangerous and I’m not having him around Sherlock. I want you to have Crane and Stanford intercept Watson this evening and let him know that he should think long and hard about moving out of 221B and leave my brother to his own devices.”

(-_-)

That evening Mycroft got a phone call from Anthea. “Sir, we have confirmation on contact with Watson.”

“Good, I’m glad he is out of the way.”

“Sir, it’s not what you think. Both our agents are now in hospital, apparently our innocuous Watson is much more dangerous than we thought. How do you want us to proceed?”

(-_-)

John sat in his chair bleeding as Sherlock ran up to their spare room to get his medical bag. He came back down double quick time and is gathering up clean cloths and a basin of warm water.

“Shall I call Lestrade? Did you get a good look at them?” Sherlock is leaning John’s head back and gently wiping the caked blood from his face. He is also cataloging the myriad of cuts, bruises and abrasions covering John’s skin. “This wasn’t a mugging.” Sherlock said knowingly.

“No, these were not muggers Sherlock, just idiots.”

“John?” Sherlock was concerned.

“Haven’t I told you Sherlock, I am part of a secret society that is attempting to take over the world by kicking high testosterone arse?” John said trying to smile with a battered cheek and swollen lip.

“Why are you are trying to make light of this John?”

“It was some heavies thinking they could push a little guy around. I taught them a lesson, neither one of them walked away. End of story.”

“John you know that I will deduce who did this and they will suffer.”

“Go ahead deduce away.” John is not going to be drawn out any further.

Sherlock huffed and kept working on patching John up. He would let it go for now, John’s immediate care is important. Later he would hunt down and make the two men who had accosted John suffer. John’s reluctance to divulge who the thugs were is troubling.

(-_-)

“I want Stivers, Cromwell, Jenkins and Smith to make my wishes known to Watson yet again,” Mycroft spoke. “They will most likely be upset that he has dared to injure their brethren. I am sure they will be beyond restraint.”

“Indeed.” Anthea is sure that Watson will not be treated well at all.

(-_-)

“You will not keep me from him,” Sherlock is rabid as hospital security try to muscle him out of their facility. Sherlock drew legal papers from his Belstaff and proffered them in front of their eyes. “I have his power of attorney that trumps familial attachments.”

Sherlock is escorted back to John’s room and the ever inebriated Harry Watson gives him the evil eye and leaves without a word. Sherlock sits at John’s bedside and took his small hand in his. It would be a long night, a very long night. The doctors were adamant that the concussion was the worst of John’s injuries. While the bones, muscles and tendons would all heal. The concussion was severe and possibly life threatening if the surgery to alleviate intracranial pressure didn’t help. 

(-_-)

Mycroft accompanied by three of his strong armed minions entered the quiet hospital room. 

“Mycroft, this is you isn’t it!” Sherlock shouted in rage coming at Mycroft and bashing his face in, dashing him into his men as he fell towards the ground. His men caught him, but damage had been done. His nose is bloodied, most likely broken and his lower lip is split and bleeding profusely. It took all three of Mycroft’s men to subdue Sherlock and pinion him to the opposing wall. If they had not, Sherlock would have committed fratricide.

“You bastard, you had your foul creatures injure John. Let me go and I will finish what I have begun.” Sherlock struggled and Mycroft’s men had to concentration all of their power to keep him away from his brother.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft was trying to be level headed in the face of utter disaster. “Stop this at once. This was to be message given. Watson is the one that degraded the whole affair to a full-fledged brawl which brought him to hospital.”

“Four against one man already battered from your prior ‘message’. I shall have you for this!”

“He is a dangerous man Sherlock with huge holes in his history and you know what that means.” Mycroft is belligerent now.

“He is my ‘dangerous man’, Mycroft and I will not be parted from him, not by you or any man.”

“Sherlock,” a voice weak with injury and disuse begs audience.

Sherlock rips himself from Mycroft’s men to return to John’s side.

“Get out,” Sherlock glares daggers at Mycroft who stands dripping blood upon his three piece suit. “Get out and take your filth with you. Should you or they cross my path again I will do my worse.”

Mycroft takes his men and departs rather badly.

“Sherlock,” John pulls his lover close. “What was that, the shouting?”

“Mycroft and his minions came to gloat at your bedside; to tell me that you are a dangerous man. Did you know you were a dangerous man, John?” Sherlock is ecstatic that John is awake.

“I always thought that I was your dangerous man,” John half smiles.

“Right you are, my love.” Sherlock is so happy that John has returned to him. In his mind he plots his revenge upon Mycroft and his dark minions.

“When can we go home?” John asks in all seriousness.

“Sooner than soon, my love,” Sherlock replies.


	2. Sherlock's Dangerous Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John fit together 'like the sky and the horizon that had all those long lines coming together in all the right places."

Finally, finally they were back home. Sherlock is very relieved. The very short time that they’d been together a bond had been formed between them. This strong bond that is like forged steel. This man, this John Watson is always a surprise, an enigma, a mystery which wants to be solved and never would be. He made Sherlock want to be the better man. John is a gentle man with serious issues of trust, but that first night he’d trusted Sherlock and god help him, Sherlock had trusted him. They were a match. Like the little salt and pepper shakers that looked so right together, like the sky and the horizon had all those long lines coming together in just the right places.

Sherlock knew that John is more than he appeared. He’d seen him move. The crack shot over long distances, the way he hid his strong physique beneath those common jumpers. He’d seen the exceptional man beneath. The flawed man that needed purpose; John’s life is all about purpose; to serve man, to serve Queen and Country, to serve Sherlock? He isn’t sure about that last bit? He’d looked into those midnight blue eyes and he lost himself in their mystery. Sherlock slept with a killer at his side and loved him, cherished him and craved him.

John slept in their bed, he is on the mend from his encounter with Mycroft’ minions. There isn’t much that Sherlock can do now. He’d fed his lover. He’d touched every inflicted injury, memorized each wound and god help them they would all pay; each and every minion and bloody Mycroft too. That shite for brains brother of his, meddling, vacuous and villain-hearted government git; they would all pay dearly and over time for what they did to John.

“Hey you,” the soft voice that could command and control each and every person within hear shot, that voice that broke him down and soothed his broken pieces back together. That voice he could not now live without called him; John’s voice.

“John,” Sherlock said the name like a prayer, like a poem, like the only fucking word that matters in all of eternity. “John, you need to rest.”

“What I need is you, here. He gestured to the empty space at his side.”

Sherlock came to bed. How could he not. He filled that empty space and smiled into the weathered face of his John.

“Sherlock, I’ve never done anything that I was ashamed of. You need to know that. Whatever anyone tells you. That is my personal truth. If you ever want me to leave, you say the word and I’m gone and you will never see or hear of me again.”

At these words Sherlock panics and pulls John closer to his slender frame. He shook with fear, real fear. John felt his tremors and quickly soothed his lover’s discomfort.

“That will never happen. I will never let you leave. I will find you if you move away from my side.” Sherlock is adamant. 

“If you will have me, I will be at your side, with you until my last breath. Understand that. Know that in your bones, feel that pulsing in your blood. Tears formed in the corners of John’s eyes, glittering tears that slowly slid down pale cheeks beneath eyes that looked at Sherlock with longing and love. 

“I don’t care about the past,” Sherlock said with confidence, “I don’t give a shite about what’s behind us. All that matters is now. Right now. Just give me that and I’ll be okay. Don’t ever leave me, John, please.” Sherlock didn’t say the P word at all. He never said please. Unless he was trying to manipulate people, he wasn’t trying to manipulate John. He wanted him to stay, to rest, to be at peace; to be as dangerous as he wanted to be.

John looked at the younger man and saw himself. A quirky man, who no one cared to understand, only this quirky man is brilliant in ways that were beyond imagination. This quirky man will change the world. Make things better. Of course he will.


	3. Lingering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock linger near death, witnessing its many faces.

John awoke wrapped in the warm cocoon of Sherlock’s arms. It is so odd that someone so long limbed who you’d think would be awkward could so easily and comfortable fit himself around his lover. John is certain that they could remain in this jumble of arms and limbs for a long period of time and be entirely comfortable and happy. That was the right of it, being happy. Sherlock deduced who John was upon their meeting and John had seen that Sherlock is everything he’d been looking for too. They both stood near death. Lingering there to view, observe and witness, because death is more real when it is witnessed, just as life is more real when you lived it full tilt like Sherlock Holmes.

John had stood near death, held it in his arms, had watched it fade from bright eyes that would never see anything again; had knelt beside death as it came too slowly or too quick. He’d thrown death at others, had delivered it without being seen, and long ago John had stopped crying. Knowing that death was the only true destination, everything else was transport. For John tears had stopped being a part of his repertoire knowing they served no purpose in this life, not that they were a sign of weakness; but in the long run you needed the salt and the water for other more important things. Yet he’d been moved to tears last night; he felt the rightness of those tears. The joy and the pain they expressed. He knew that he could be more expressive now; to Sherlock, to the world in general and to himself. His ‘trust issues’ were at last being addressed.

He’d felt like transport for a long time, yet he couldn’t bring himself to embrace death even after he’d lost his purpose; unable to be healer or killer or anything to anyone. Now he had purpose, a lover, and more importantly he had found himself again. Not lost in the miasma of regret, of longing, of loss; John was following this genius, this idiot and he knew that this was the right of it. This was where he’d die in the traces, following this man, his lover, his best friend.

“John,” the name was whispered into his ear with reverence and just a bit of saucy sexy breathing. 

“You’re awake are you? Bout time you came around. You ready to be shagged back to sleep?” John said with humor in his voice.

“Yes, please and thank you,” Sherlock replied. The rage of curly dark hair tickled John on the back of his neck as he turned in Sherlock’s arms. Capturing those sensual lips with his own John began his assault on Sherlock Holmes. Now Sherlock knew what it was to be wanted, not for his brain, or his abilities, but merely for who he was. He is that unusual man who stood too near death, who witnessed it, catalogued it and contemplated its ever line and shadow. Now they would stand together, they would follow death throughout London, in her posh estates, her dirty, dingy back allies and always they would find death and see it with the eyes of truth. 

John took Sherlock, offered him pleasure and pain, sadness and laughter. Love and the demon desire, he played his body like the fine instrument that it was; like Sherlock played his violin. John filled him and emptied him in equal amounts and left him boneless and breathless and bearly alive then he held him tight. Knowing that his love would sleep now; sleep the sleep of the very well shagged and wake with desire yet again and John could wait for his release. He could wait for time is the currency of his life now. 

(-_-)

John could see that his Sherlock (it was so grand to think those thoughts) had not been given much affection attention in his short life. John is determined to change all that. And really the walk-up is always better than the opening door, at least in John’s experience, but he is ready to open a lot of doors for Sherlock as he taught him about all the wonderful, intoxicating, thrilling walk-ups life gives. 

John slept holding love in his arms. Sherlock awoke with raging hormones and there was no stopping those hormones – he was more than adequate to the task of relieving John’s sexual tensions in an extraordinary manner of inventive ways.

(-_-)

John made tea, a strong black tea with a full on breakfast for himself as Sherlock begged off from eating. Though not hungry, John did tempt him to eat many morsels from his hand. John can be very tempting when he wants to be.

It was a cold case Monday. Finally shaved, showered and dressed, John comes in to find Sherlock working at his computer and reviewing cold case files from Lestrade.

“How goes it, love,” John asks?

“I’ve located the six men involved in your ‘messages’ and I’ve solved 12 out of 15 cold cases in the time after breakfast. You will have to do that omelet with bacon and greens again soon. It was quite tasty in a non-boring way.”

“So what plans have you laid for the gentlemen in question and what are we to do with your bastard brother?”

“My bastard brother, well yes, I have deemed his actions the most egregious and his punishment the more vile and long term.”

“You still have not said what you plan to do.” John made tea and pulled biscuits from the tin. Setting Sherlock’s tea down within arm’s reach, he sat in his chair and smiled the smile of contentment. 

“The minions will find themselves in financial ruin, then they will be involved in the sordid affair of child pornography and that is only the beginning.” Sherlock was very proud of his accomplishments in such a short span of time.

“Jezeus, Sherlock, they will suffer many times more than I ever did.” John said a bemused look upon his face. “They will be devastated.”

“And so they should be for laying hands on you, John. I’ll not tolerate it.” Sherlock is concentrating on his computer.

“Remind me, Sherlock, never to make you cross at me, ever. How are you doing all this? Do you have an army at your disposal?”

“Better yet, I am a member of a computer community, Serpent’s Tooth. In a computer controlled society ST has the know how to provide, provoke and penetrate any organization, group or government. It’s thankless child’s play.”

“Shakespeare’s King Lear ‘How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child’,” John quoted.

“John, you continue to surprise me. It’s something that you do. You are not intimidated by any Holmes and you know it is exceedingly hard to surprise me.”

At that moment, Mycroft entered the flat and simultaneously Sherlock immediately stood and came between his brother and is new lover.

“Mycroft, if you value your life, you will leave now.”


	4. Murder by Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mad Man Murderer is on the prowl. Or is he?

“Advance one more step and I will break that preposterous family nose of yours,” Sherlock warned.

“I don’t know how you are doing these things to my men, but you are to cease at once,” Mycroft is calm in his manner but there was the threat of darkness in his voice. “These men were under my orders and should not be subjected to you malicious, vile temper.”

“Neither should my,” Sherlock paused unused to the word working in his mouth, “lover be abused because he doesn’t meet your yardstick approval. Now get out before I throw you out.”

John could see that the anger and threat level was escalating to physical violence. 

Mycroft came forward a step and John, despite still recovering from injuries, is right there between the feuding siblings.

“I speak on behalf of sanity and the physical safety of all involved when I say that this must stop now!” This was said in his command voice, the captain breaking up the row of his underlings.

“Sherlock, this does appear to be overkill on your part. The first two gentlemen were badly injured and those that followed didn’t walk away without damage. So I think that you might want to back off of your revenge as I don’t think that their actions warrant your vicious retaliation.”

“And you,” John turned on Mycroft. “Your brother is old enough to make his own life decisions. I will remind you that what you have done is misuse of government personal and time plus the assault on a wounded war vet recently invalided home from war, this could result in a massive court case against you and your department. I do know a few lawyers who would happily snap up a case like this and chew on it for years. So you had better BACK OFF.”

Now that he had both their attentions. “You will sit calmly and cool off while I make some tea.” John is in command mode.

The brothers did as they were told, though they glared so determinedly at each other that if looks could kill, they would have murdered most of the populace of their wonderful island home.

John came back with tea and biscuits, poured and passed the biscuits, then took his seat next to Sherlock on their couch. “Now that there appears to be some semblance of peace, you will now work these matters out before my tea is gone.”

“I will withdraw my actions if you will compensate John for his pain and suffering plus provide him with a special permit that will allow him to carry a firearm. We are up against more that petty thieves and we need the fire power in order to keep safe.”

“That is out of the…”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a bitter, cold glare that would have re-frozen the entirety of the Northern hemisphere. John put his hand behind his back as if reaching for his Browning. 

“It will take a matter of days, it won’t be easy with his history the way it is.” 

“Good, that’s excellent,” John said clearing his throat. “My tea’s neither finished nor cold and everything is all better. I knew that you two could do it if you had too.” He bit into his biscuit and put his arm around Sherlock drawing him close. “I’m proud to be a part of this rather fucked up family.”

Sherlock was not a totally happy consulting lover, but John knew he could fix his wagon later.

“So if there is no further discussion to be had, I think we need to break things off while everyone still has all their extremities. Mister Holmes let me walk you to the door.”

Reluctantly, Sherlock relinquished John as he escorted Mycroft out. When Mycroft reached the front door he put his hand on the door knob and turned to John.

“You may have won this round, Doctor Watson, but I wouldn’t be too pleased with yourself. I don’t think you’ll last very long with Sherlock. He’s not a cute and cuddly personality and he will find something about you that he can’t abide and you will be out. I have no fear of that. I will be watching you.”

“If you come between us, I will personally make sure that it doesn’t happen again,” John said not blinking as he stared up into the taller man’s eyes.

Sherlock was waiting at the top of the stairs as John came back. “You should have let me break his face, John. He was to blame for all of this to begin with.”

“What and hurt your hand, who’ll play the violin for me if you break your hand? Is he really worth the pain and effort? How did you two ever manage not to kill each other off as youngsters?”

“Here,” Sherlock helped John into his jacket. Then pulled on his great coat and twined his scarf about his neck.

“What’s up?” John let Sherlock precede him down the stairs. Sherlock ever the taxi magnet had a shiny cab within minutes. 

“I’ve called Lestrade and told him to meet us at Bethnal Commons. I believe our serial killer is using it as a base and we might be able to lay a trap for him.”

They were quiet in the cab. John could feel the adrenaline pumping and he reached out to squeeze Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock is focused and ready to do the Work. It was a total body rush, this chasing through the back streets of London, looking for mad men that inhabited the dark side. Murderers, madmen and thieves, John could sing a little ditty about it all. The song of Sherlock Holmes, John would have to write that one, he could always count on his consulting lover to help him bring up a tune.

They got to the commons and were joined by Lestrade and his people. Evening approached it would be getting dark and cold soon. 

“What makes you think this is his lair, Sherlock?” Lestrade is as eager as his consulting detective to get this killer off the streets. 

“These retired industrials are riddled with compounds specific to their earlier functions. Trace amounts were found on all of the bodies. I’ve been collecting data via our homeless network and trying to narrow down the exact location. We will find him here. Our Mad Man is a bad one, Lestrade. He’s a thrill killer targeting random strangers with no rhyme or reason that we can determine as of yet and constantly changing his modus operandi. We need to catch him fast, he’s progressing now, his cooling down periods getting shorter and shorter.”

“What do you want us to do here?” Lestrade is more than willing to start working Sherlock’s plan. 

“This series of seven warehouses will contain his lair. We need to systematically search them, when his lair is found I need to view it before anyone else. I need more data before I can further extrapolate on his next activity.”

“Donovan, I want our people to begin grid searches of these warehouses. I want everyone to check in at regular intervals and I want no one to touch anything they find. Just call it in and stay the hell out of harm’s way. We are dealing with a killer who is malicious.”

“Aye, Guv,” Sally turned to begin the leg work that would find the ‘Madman Murderer’ as the press had dubbed him. As one early DI had said that he’d have to be mad man to do what he was doing to people.

(-_-)

Sherlock was aiding in the hunt and finding nothing to add to his already confirmed data. He hated this tedious part of the process. John is also helping in the walk out and Sherlock missed him at his side. Darkness had fallen and the light of his torch is all there is in these hallowed out factory shells.

Sherlock turned the corner of the next position on his grid and stopped in his tracks. There on the floor, in the light of his torch, a black coat. Torn and covered in blood. It looked like the coat John wore. What was John’s coat doing here? Sherlock hurried to the coat and knelt down to take a closer look. Everything went black.

(-_-)

John answered his mobile on the first ring. 

“John, Sherlock hasn’t checked in. I’m sending men into his area C-2,” Lestrade said concern in his voice.

Within forty-five minutes Sherlock’s entire grid had been searched and he was not to be found. Nothing had been found. 

“Lestrade, I’d hate to think that this was a trap for Sherlock, but I can’t see Sherlock taking off without at least texting us about what he was up to.” John is unable to control his agitation. He couldn’t just find Sherlock in his life, only to lose him to a madman murderer; that isn’t going to happen.

“I’ve got everyone on alert to find Sherlock. He is our best hope of finding this bastard. Now, without him we’re blind. God knows what he’ll do to Sherlock. The murderer has to know that Sherlock is behind the clues that have brought us here.” 

“I’m going to contact some of his networks and get more people looking for him.” John strode away and looked for a cab to take him home.

In the cab back to Baker Street John texted Sherlock again hoping that his hair-brained lover may have just forgotten to text in the heat of the moment.

Where are you? JW

John stared at the mobile willing it to reply to his text. Nothing. He placed the mobile back into his jacket pocket. Despair crowded his heart. Sherlock is in deep trouble and he hadn’t been there to help him. He’d failed his lover.

The cab came to a halt. “This isn’t Baker Street…” the words died on John’s lips. Outside a Black Jaguar has cut the cab off and now the rear door came open. John paid the cabbie and exited to enter the Jaguar. 

“So you know that Sherlock has been taken?” John spoke as he sat opposite Mycroft.

The elder Holmes was stern and stiff. His eyes like biting steel.

“I received this message ten minutes ago,” Mycroft handed his mobile to John and waited as the former Army Captain thumbed the play button on the mobile.

A brief video played, Sherlock lay upon a dark surface, his pale eyes were open but appeared unseeing. His great coat was gone and the camera circled him as hands removed his suit coat and shirt with a sharp knife. That same blade was drawn down the center of Sherlock’s chest, leaving a thin cut that bled but a little. The video ended and a voice disguised electronically spoke.

“Mycroft Holmes, if you value your brother’s well being, then I suggest that you follow all future orders with great haste and with no thought of subterfuge.”

“So he is to be ransomed,” John said handing the mobile back to Mycroft.

“I doubt that very much, Watson. I believe he will be tortured and tormented to bend me to whatever political agenda his captors find advantageous at the time.”

“Shit,” John said as he sat back into the fine leather of the car seat. He’d seen the mutilated bodies of prior victims of the Madman murderer.


	5. Networks and Shaky Aliances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock realizes that what he thought was a serial spree killer is also someone setting a very elaborate trap for a certain idiot consulting detective.

Sherlock came to in the dimly lit room. He was nude from the waist up and he can smell the faint cooper of his own blood. He tries to move and is only successful in millimeters. His body is heavy, his own musculature not working properly at all. Drugs he surmises, but not anything he’s had before when he was young and mad, this is totally unfamiliar. He is lying on a dark mat. The room is screened from his view by hanging cloths reminiscent of a hospital suite, but this doesn’t smell like a hospital. Above him there is a camera mounted on a circular track that runs from his head down to his feet. The camera has lines feeding out from his enclosure.

Sherlock realizes that what he thought was a serial spree killer is also someone setting a very elaborate trap for a certain consulting detective.

“I am here if you’d like to talk,” his words are a bit slurred. His mouth is dry. “Some water would be good right now.”

A woman’s voice deep and resoundingly sensual speaks from everywhere. “Hello my key, water is on its way.”

Sherlock is surprised and delightfully engaged. It is not every day that one comes across a female serial killer and one with designs upon him. “This has to be one of my lucky days,” Sherlock says with a hint of astonishment in his voice.

“You have no idea,” the calm and soothing voice says with an overarching threat of death standing too near.

(-_-)

John has put word out for Scout one of Sherlock’s trusted young lieutenants to contact him. Via Sherlock’s computer web site he asks Serpent’s Tooth, Sherlock’s association of computer programmers, to help him extract Sherlock from the Mad Man murderer. Against his better judgment, he has even told Mycroft that he wants to work together. Finding Sherlock, it seems is one thing the lover and brother can agree on. Sherlock would have a snit if he found out, but John didn’t give a fuck, getting Sherlock home and safe was all that mattered.

Briefing Scout in the flat, John set him off to bring the homeless network up to speed. As Scout is exiting the flat John’s phone rang, the number is blocked. 

“Watson,” John answered in his captain’s voice. No nonsense.

“Ah, Doctor, you do have that military command in your voice. This is the voice of insanity calling,” the mechanically augmented voice is set to the scratching on the black board level and John immediately pulls his computer close and signals Lestrade, Serpent’s Tooth and Mycroft. All sound on the computer is on mute so as not to give away his actions.

“If it isn’t the voice of death come to gloat over how easy you pulled your fast one?” John is mentally counting the seconds and hoping to keep the killer on the line as long as possible.

“No, my pet, I’m here to let you know that you are my next victim. What a joy to have Sherlock watch his lover die at my hands, raped and tortured, taking a quick bath in your still warm blood will unhinge him. Come on John, Sherlock and I are waiting for you.”

“Just tell me where the fuck you are and I’ll make it a point to turn up on your door step.” John is livid. He wants to put a bullet in serial killers brain in the worse way.

“Walk the streets of London, John, I’m sure to find you.” The line went dead and John turned to his computer flicking the volume up.

“Did you get a fix on the call,” John asked?

“Still working on it,” Lestrade stated.

“John,” Cindy from Serpent’s Tooth spoke. “We’ve got at track on it, but it’s binging all over the globe. We’ll keep on it but this is not some amateur. It’s too sophisticated for one person that we wouldn’t be aware of, we’d know about someone with this level of tech ability.”

John didn’t bother with calling Mycroft, he knew the git was monitoring calls and would be the first to break silence if there was really something new.

Checking his Browning, adding extra bullets to his jacket pocket, John checked the remote temperature sensor. It was cold out he’d need a jumper, coat, hat and warm gloves.

“John, what are you doing, you’re so quiet,” Cindy spoke from the computer. “Tell me you’re not going to do something stupid?”

“I’m going after Sherlock.”

“You are going to walk into the murderers trap? Would Sherlock want that?” Cindy was trying to get John to calm down.

“The murderer’s trap is where Sherlock is and I can’t save him from the safety of Baker Street.” John is not being moved from his resolve.

“He wants you to do this, John. We have no idea how many he has killed. You won’t help Sherlock if you are dead.” Cindy was distraught that she could not stop John, being just a voice on the computer.

“My mind is set, Cindy, so you can talk all the rubbish you want. I must go.”

Cindy heard John gather his belongings and the door closing with a hard slam.

(-_-)

Mycroft heard from his agents that John is on the move. 

“He doesn’t appear to have a destination,” Anthea said not looking up from her Blackberry. “Do you want us to ‘pick him up’, Sir?

“No, follow him. Do not lose him. He is crucial to this extraction. His connection with Sherlock may be the one thing that the murderer cannot suss. Maybe I was too hasty in my decision that Sherlock didn’t need the company of dangerous men. Maybe a dangerous man is what we all need right now.

(-_-)

Soon a man dressed in non-descript clothing, but wearing a mask that obscures his face totally enters Sherlock’s enclosure. He has a squirt bottle and lifts Sherlock’s head slightly to administer the water he requested.

Sherlock is further intrigued. A serial killer with minions to do her bidding and a rather well financed ‘hide out’; so not a slimy degenerate, but a person of some power, wealth, fascinating.

When his captor came at last her countenance was very ‘normal’. She was not overly anything. Smallish as John was to him. Her hair a light brown, eyes dark brown, she was dressed in clothes that gave no inkling of who she was. Easily she could have blended in walking down the streets of London. Just another ‘normal’ female face in the crowd.

“We meet at last, the great Sherlock Holmes. It will be my very great pleasure to take your life as slowly as I can.”

“And your name?” Sherlock tried unsuccessfully to lift himself up. 

She came forward then, holding a small glass rod in her hand latex gloved hands. She held Sherlock’s left eye open by holding the eyelids apart and touched the wet end of the rounded glass rod end to the corner of his eye. Then with each beat of his heart Sherlock felt the chemical substance reverberate throughout his body and though it affected his major muscles, his breathing and heart beat seemed unaffected. 

“Incredible,” Sherlock murmurs as he feels his control over his body go somewhere else.

“A special blend of my own, leaving the autonomic system untouched.”

“You are not the master here, but merely another minion, a lowly killer worker bee.”

“How astute you are, Mister Holmes. I am but a servicer to a greater brilliance than my own.”

“You are the serial killer, rapist and dismember of how many people?” Sherlock wanted to glean as much information from his captor as possible.

“I’ve killed twelve people that you know of and nearly 200 in my somewhat small career.” She turned and as she did her minion came forth and took the glass rod from her hand and then vanished back behind the surrounding curtains.

“I am very interested in who would support you in your enterprises?”

“My master does not like to get his hands dirty, but he is quite appreciative of my skill sets.” Her brown eyes shown as she speaks of her ‘master’.

“A sadistic voyeur who doesn’t worry about social mores, how interesting: yet another factoid about this rather bizarre and delightful case.”

“And you shall be the center piece of my new line of work for my master. He finds that your brother has been very intractable and hard to manipulate. Now with you under my control, I think he will listen to my master with a more fervent understanding. You may call me LT that is what my master calls me.

“A female serial killer within my view,” Sherlock had to gather more data on L. This could take a long time. Then he remembered John. “I’d like to contact John. He’ll be worried about me. I worry that he will do something drastic.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible and anyway, I’m pretty sure he’s on his way here.”

John, Sherlock thinks to himself, please don’t do anything stupid.

(-_-)

John is walking the cold streets of a typical London night. As the night grew colder and people disbursed to their homes, he found himself alone. Traffic moved past in starts and fits as the lights changed, but foot traffic was getting sparse. Two men advanced toward him. They were not just men out for a walk. John can see by the way they carry themselves; they were coming at him, no angling away at all. This is the plan to pick up John and take him to where the serial killer is holding Sherlock. Since when did serial killers have little helpers? This case was getting stranger by the minute. John thought about whether he should use plan A or B.

“What the fuck,” John said as he rammed into the two thugs full force. “I’m feeling really lucky tonight, let’s go with plan F.”

(-_-)

Mycroft was sitting at his desk; a text had just come through from an unknown point of origin. 

Go to this URL at 10:30 PM to view your brother. I’m sure you will be more than happy to do my bidding after our first session.

The time was near. Mycroft entered the URL into his computer and watched as Sherlock’s form came into view. He is still on the dark mat. He was not bound in any way, but he was gagged and awake; his eyes moving from the camera to the individual working on him.

A piece of rubber tubing was place around Sherlock’s neck. The tubing grew tight and tighter. Sherlock was trying desperately to pull in breath, his coloring going pallid, seconds passed like hours then a tinge of blue crept onto his lips and face. The screen went blank.

An altered voice came across the computer. “The list that follows, court dates, world trade commissions, positions opening in the governmental hierarchy; all these and many other matters are all within your purview. You will augment the directions indicated by the lists demands. Or I will start sending you small pieces of your brother and I believe I will begin with his tongue and his prick, a thin slice at a time. Understood?”

“Clearly understood.” Mycroft is pallid. He’d never seen Sherlock helpless at the hands of a madman before. “Most decidedly understood.”


	6. A Master's Degree in Murder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You are the world's first 21st century serial killer with a masters degree in Murder. Torture and talk of torture herein.

Sherlock is helpless in the hands of the serial killer L, but he is still the smartest data collector in the room. He wants to be ready. John will come for him. The crazy bugger will come; there is no way to stop him. Sherlock keeps his eyes and ears open, calculating, categorizing and quantifying all incoming information. It isn’t looking good, but then L hasn’t sussed John Watson. He is a force of nature, a fucking dangerous man Mycroft had called him and nothing came between John and his Sherlock.

(-_-)

L looked into the webcam in front of her. She stood wide legged, solid and sure of her position as she listened to her master; her eyes blazing with intensity, her lover of all lovers caresses her with his malignancy.

“Prep him. I want to begin our onslaught of Mycroft Holmes at midnight tonight. I want him to come crawling on his knees to me. I want to OWN him before morning L.”

L worshipped him. He is not in any way out of the ordinary; not overly tall or spectacularly handsome. His soft Irish brogue is lilting and pure until it is not, then he becomes lightening and death. They were a matched set of dark hearts. She would maim, murder, rape and destroy her victims all the while recording her activities so, at his leisure, he could watch her great acts of destructive art; watch as she dealt death making it a glorious conflagration of blood splatters, cracked bones, rendered flesh and the screeching screams of the tortured. She is magnificent and he’s seen to it that she has wanted for nothing; he gave her all that she desired. And she, she gives him all the filthy, wretched death he can ever want, all without getting his hands dirty. He has many disciples but L is his favorite, his special, high-most. She’s proved her worth time and time again. By being the most prolific of all his murderers. She is the most blood thirsty and outrageous of his whole stable of killers and the master adores her.

(-_-)

Sherlock feels the drug losing its potency, his systems finally coming back on line. The curtains part and L comes in with emergency room scissors, the kind used to cut people out of their clothes. She proceeds to remove the remainder of Sherlock’s clothing. Then using hospital grade leather restrains she ties him to the dark pad on which he rests.

“Are you commencing with the more ruthless level of your torture upon my person? Your master is determined to us me against my brother, but I think you will find him not easily manipulated.”

L smiles as she takes a leather cradle strap out from under the platform. She puts Sherlock’s head into the leather contraption and secures it in place. Now he is completely immobilized. Movement is impossible.

“I think that you will find that my techniques are more provocative than your average serial killer,” L’s eyes shine with a predator’s ferocity.

“You’ve been doing this a long time, your proficiency with knives and scalpels indicates that you’ve had professional training, not butchering, but a forensics or medical back ground. You know a great deal about chemistry, not just simple anesthetics, the neuro-blocking agents, neurotoxins. Who would train a serial killer in the chemistry and biology of death? You are the world’s first 21st century serial killer with a master’s degree in murder. Did you start out pulling the wings off birds? Then move on to any small living thing you could get your hands on?” Sherlock is right on the money. He can see it in her response, her body language. She’s alive with the memories of all her kills.

“You are very bright, Sherlock Holmes. I will make sure to leave your tongue for last so that I can hear your beautiful voice break with the incredible amounts of screaming you will be doing.”

“I can hardly wait,” Sherlock says in a voice filled with sarcasm.

L places medical tape over Sherlock’s eyes closing them against sight. “A little darkness for your, pretty boy,” she revels in her power over him. She applies ear plugs to his ears. “No more sound for you either.” She is ready to begin her session. All she needs is the word from her master.

Without sight or sound, Sherlock is bereft. He focuses attention to his skin and sense of smell. Skin is the largest and most sensitive of the body’s organs and the nose is completely underutilized. It is agony with the loss of his other senses. He mind races and rockets careening off itself with lack of stimulus. He starts to tremble, not in fear of the torture to come, but of the sightless and soundlessness he is lost in. He retreats to his Mind Palace going deep into its confines. He is looking for the image of John that he left in the center of the Mind Palace; he throws himself into the arms of the John that resides there.

‘Save me John,’ he thinks. ‘I can bare the torture, but my mind will self-destruct in the void!’

(-_-)

Mycroft sits at his desk, his agents and operatives doing double duty trying to find the younger Holmes. The Queen is now second tier to Sherlock Holmes, at least for the few hours while she sleeps. His assistant gives a soft knock at his door and enters.

“All areas of surveillance are activated and agents are on stand-by.” Anthea speaks in solemn tones her face barely lifted from her Blackberry. She is aware that Sherlock is a pain in his brother’s arse, but Mycroft’s fierce brotherly protection all but fills the room.

“Thank you,” he says not looking up from his computer. The screen comes alive directly at midnight. Sherlock is nude upon the same dark pad as before. He is restrained and as the camera moves around his body toward his head, Mycroft can see that his eyes and ears have been compromised. He is aware of how important input is to Sherlock. This is more of a torture than any physical damage that they can do to his brother. If they keep him this way for any length of time, he will surely go mad.

“Can you see your brother Mycroft,” the disguised voice prompts? “How shall I begin? Would you like me to deliver a small piece of him to your door? Shall I inject micro doses of acid beneath his skin and let you watch as he is consumed with burns. Each going infectious and purulent; taking his life with fever, delirium and agonizing pain? The choices are endless aren’t they?” Latex gloved hands move over Sherlock’s body as he flinches from the touch as a horse flicks its muscles beneath the skin against the unwanted contact.

“Mycroft, don’t you dare compromise your asinine…” Sherlock’s words are cut off as a gag is thrust into his mouth.

A stainless steel pin attached to a strong hanging chain is hammered into Sherlock’s sternum. Then the pin is pulled up toward the ceiling. Sherlock’s body weight is being held up by his rib cage, his muffled cries easily heard in the silent room.

“How long before he passes out from the pain, Mycroft?” The altered voice asks with a touch of humor in it.

The screen freezes on that image as Mycroft lets go of the breath his is holding. “Any word,” Mycroft’s eyes don’t leave the screen. His brother faces death and he is helpless.

“The feed is being traced. No overt signs of where the point of origin is as of yet. Everyone is working, Sir.” Anthea is as disturbed as her boss.

She touches the ear bud in her right ear and taps her Blackberry. “Dr. Watson’s been taken, Sir. We have operatives in pursuit.”

“I want him retrieved, damn it. I want him NOW.” There is no doubt that Mycroft will have his way.


	7. An Ordinary Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson looks like an ordinary man. But really underneath that jumper and those baggy jeans there is someone who is far...very far from ordinary.

John Watson looks like an ordinary man. You’d never know by looking at him that he could hold his own in hand to hand combat with more than a couple of deadly blokes. His bulky jumpers, his window pane shirts, black leather Haversack shooting jacket and classic Loake boots all give John a disguise within a disguise. The soft, warm doctor’s smile hides a soldier who can turn into an assassin extraordinaire from nought to light speed. John is the perfect partner for Sherlock Holmes. He is everything that Sherlock needs in his life both personally and professionally and Sherlock is John’s wet dream. So when the bad guys kidnap ‘his’ Sherlock, they were really asking for a lot of bull shit, a whole lot of bullshit.

(-_-)

John didn’t need a lot of equipment to get his badass on. He walked into L’s trap with his eyes open. He let the two heavy’s sent to get him – get him. They took his Browning. They patted him down assuming he was helpless, under their control and then the shite hit the fan. He didn’t even break a sweat as he took the heavy’s down with calculated moves that would have made Sherlock hot. (The consulting lover is really impressed when his man of action goes into action). With the tiniest bit of persuasion he finds out where they were holding Sherlock and sticks both the baddies into the boot of their own car (it is an extremely tight fit). Then he waits impatiently for his ‘tails’ to catch up to him.

“It took you long enough,” John complains as his tails finally arrive. “We are going to go in silent and fast and if Sherlock is so much as scratched; there will be blood, do I make myself clear?” The four agents nod in the affirmative and watch with new appreciation as the short man turns and gets into his captors car and drives toward the killer’s lair. John has confiscated the two guns carried by the heavies in the boot so he is well armed and confidence is high that Sherlock will be home in Baker Street soon.

“I’d hate to be anyone in Watson’s way,” says agent Keller.

(-_-)

An audio comes on Mycroft’s computer. 

“Mycroft,” the altered voice is softer, more commanding than the original. Mycroft determines the voice is not the same person who originally spoke to him. “This is the beginning of a rather messy session of torture if you don’t follow my orders, your brother will suffer for your lack of cooperation.” 

The printer at Anthea’s desk comes to life and begins spitting out pages.

“Sir,” Anthea rushes to her computer, viewing the pages being processed. “He’s gotten into our systems. I’m putting everything on lock down; firewalls have definitely been breached.”

Mycroft stands in the doorway of his office as the printer continues to disgorge page after page of demands. 

“This isn’t our serial killer; this is collusion between the killer and someone else.” Mycroft plucks the pages from the printer and takes them into his office. He closes the door and Anthea knows he is not to be disturbed. The image of his baby brother bound to the platform, sightless, soundless and being pulled toward the ceiling by the pin in his chest remains on his computer screen. Mycroft isn’t a man of emotion. It’s always been Queen and Country and damn the rest. But this is Sherlock, the fragile child, the rebel teen, the brilliant but damaged young man and now an adult who shows promise and finally focus. How does he let him suffer because of the demands of a madman? Does he rescind his position and let someone else make these hard decisions? This is Sherlock his only brother; his blood.

There is a gentle knock at the door.

“Come,” Mycroft answers.

“Sir, word from our agents following Watson, they have found him and he knows where your brother is being held. Apparently, Watson is taking lead and they are going in for an extraction.”

“Who placed him in charge? Get me Keller on the line. I want to know who authorized this fiasco?”

Anthea turns to put through her boss’ call. ‘Ah, heads will roll or someone will get the Victoria Cross,’ she thinks as Keller comes on the line.

“Line one, sir.” Anthea says as she shuts Mycroft’s door. No one will want to hear the scathing exchange.

(-_-)

Keller is trying to keep Watson in sight (shite, for a man with a dodgy leg, he can move like wind on water) and listen to the caustic commentary coming through his earwig from Holmes senior. Wonderful. They are in a regular rabbit warren of rooms and hallways of an old chemical treatment plant. Some of the interior has been upgraded, but much of the building is time worn and filled with the detritus of its discarded history. 

Keller, Shrives, Anders and Keaton fan out behind Watson who is taking point in a way which shows this is not his first covert ops. He is fast, ruthless and most importantly, he is the most effective point man Keller has worked with. Keller isn’t about to follow anyone, he’s experienced in the field and has done his share of extractions. Watson’s already told them if ANY harm comes to the younger Holmes there would be hell to pay. Holmes the senior made it clear that if Junior was even slightly breathless from this lift out everyone concerned could kiss their collective arses good bye. So there is no wiggle-room here; failure is not an option. 

“Where the hell is he?” Keaton is practically running to keep up with Watson. There are bodies on the ground and they aren’t just unconscious, they are annihilated. This is a take no prisoners scenario and with this type of serial killer, Keller isn’t going to cry over split blood. This is not a serial killers lair; this is an organized slaughter house of horrors.

(-_-)

Sherlock wanders the expanse of his Mind Palace. He holds John’s hand and moves from place to place – lost.

‘I can’t remember where I am, John. It all looks the same,’ Sherlock thinks.

‘I’m on my way Sherlock,’ the image of John speaks words of comfort. ‘I’ll be with you soon.’

‘Hurry, John, please hurry.’

Sherlock’s thoughts usually ordered and logical slip tangled and twisted into chaos. Sherlock is overwhelmed, bordering on distraught. He should be safe here in his sanctum sanctorum. Nothing should be able to touch him here. Only John, John is here with him. John will keep him safe. He turns to face his only friend, his lover.

‘Give me your hand, love.’ John’s voice is low and tremulous. His dangerous doctor has become the bedrock of Sherlock’s Mind Palace; their bond is the one thing in Sherlock’s short life he knows he can trust and depend on.

(-_-)

John approaches the lab where Sherlock is being held. L’s minions helped him navigate the rat’s maze of rooms. How many serial killers have minions, a warren and the money to keep it all afloat? John is far ahead of Mycroft’s men and he enters the torture room to find his greatest fears. He tears down one of the curtains surrounding Sherlock covering him then removes a Jackknife from his pocket and cuts Sherlock free of his restraints. Finally the tape is lifted from his eyes and the ear plugs are gently removed. 

“My god, they have used you poorly, my love.” John examines the pin driven into Sherlock’s sternum and hops up on top of the platform to disengage the hanging chain.

Keller and Keaton enter the torture chamber finding Watson has Sherlock sitting up on the edge of the platform and is wrapping him in one of the room’s curtains.

“Keaton, you and I are taking Sherlock back to the car I came in, careful his chest is injured.”

“Anything else we can do for you Captain?” Keller asks. He’s not going to stop the Captain from pursuing his agenda. 

“No, I’m retiring to Baker Street with Sherlock. Should you require me for any reason, you will find us there. My full report on this incident will be sent to you via email by tomorrow morning.”

“You are not taking Mister Holmes to A and E,” Keller asks?

“Not unless I have to, good luck on your clean up, gentlemen. Do try to find the serial killer if at all possible. You have more personal on the way?”

“The entire area will be engulfed in moments. Thank you for your assistance in this matter, Captain.” 

“You are entirely welcomed, Agent Keller.” Watson helps Keaton assist Sherlock out to the car.

Keller sees that Watson’s dodgy leg is finally impeding him. Keller is relieved that Holmes junior is alive and well. His assignment is complete; let Watson bear the responsibility of Sherlock Holmes’ further care.

(-_-)

Keaton accompanies Watson to Baker Street after they have taken Sherlock up stairs; he leaves retrieving the car with baddies in the boot and removes them to a secure location.

Alone with Sherlock, John does a thorough examination of his body. The slight cut down the chest, the offensive pin in his sternum which is removed with pliers is all he can find. He is supremely happy as he had feared worst atrocities but there is no other sign of trauma. Sherlock is quiet and unavailable during the rescue and even now when he is safe at home.

“Come my tall goose, we are going to take a shower and get you cleaned up.” John strips and with care gets Sherlock up and nudges him into the loo. A quick and thorough shower is given and then a drying and still Sherlock is quiet. John wraps a towel around his own waist and gets Sherlock to bed. He attends to the wound on Sherlock’s chest and settles him in comfortably.

Mrs. Hudson comes up at his request and takes an envelope downstairs and holds it for pick up by one of Keller’s men. She is so happy her boys are back in Baker Street. 

“You’re home safe, Sherlock.” John cocoons the young brunette in warming blankets and finally tends to himself. Then lying next to Sherlock he takes him in his arms and begins to sing a simple lullaby. Tenderly he hums the melody. Not demanding Sherlock speak, merely being there and available for Sherlock’s needs. He knows Sherlock has retreated to his Mind Palace, going in and coming out takes some quiet time. 

(-_-)

Sherlock moves without purpose through his Mind Palace. Not wanting to return to the vacuum of L’s torture room. Sherlock leads the image of John through the circuitous staircases and endless halls of the palace. There is emptiness in the palace today. The normally warm lighting and grand vaulted ceilings seem cramped and dull with only suffused illumination which does not fill the eyes with awed beauty. 

‘How much longer John, before we are reunited?’ Sherlock thinks it can’t be soon enough. He concentrates on practicing his measured breathing to calm his racing heart, his near shattered nerves. In a mist of conscious thought, Sherlock hears a Scottish lullaby drifting in from all around him. He is still, melody and voice soothe his brain and he feels touch coming through his senses. The touch is like no other; it’s John. He is singing to Sherlock, touching his face and holding him close. John is out there. Sherlock struggles to move away from his sanctuary. To return to his body; like swimming upstream he takes a deep breath and wills his eyes to open, to be fully present where John is.

John waits, patient as ever he has to be. He knows Sherlock will return to him, will always return to him. He sings and his eyes fill with tears as he holds Sherlock close to his heart. Tears fall onto Sherlock’s face.

“Rain,” Sherlock whispers.

Startled John pulls Sherlock away from his chest to examine his face. Those silver-grey-green-blue eyes open and John laughs and crushes Sherlock to him.

“Not rain, m’dear,” John showers Sherlock’s face with kisses. “How’s the Mind Palace doing?”

“It’s lonely without you John; you need to move in permanently.” Sherlock is wide eyed as his senses come back on line. He takes a deep breath. His lover is warm and wrapped around him; the ordeal is over.

“I knew you’d come,” Sherlock gave one of his infrequent smiles, blissfully happy.

“I’ll always come for you, but going forward you are not going to have to deal with these situations because you are not leaving my sight, Sherlock. Got it?”

The consulting lover will not protest; not ever.

(-_-)

As Sherlock sleeps, John leaves the bed only long enough to get his lap top. He is exhausted from the long worry over Sherlock’s absence from his side and the rescue from hell. He writes up his report on what he knows of the serial killer and what transpired during the rescue. He wants to know about the stainless steel pin he pulled from Sherlock’s chest. He removed it carefully. There were prints on it, the killer had been careless.

He placed his Browning at his bedside table, knowing Mycroft is also on high alert. Sherlock will be under heavy guard where ever he goes now, of course, he will always have his doctor to watch over him.

John’s mobile chimes as a text appears on screen.

Anthea: Serial killer is identified. Orphaned as toddler and later placed under psychiatric care due to early diagnosis of antisocial personality disorder. Individual is to be considered extremely dangerous. Disappeared from locked facility at age 10 never heard from again.

JW: Did Keller capture the killer?

Anthea: No. SHE got away.

JW: She? A female serial killer? What was her name?

Anthea: Lucky Thymes.

JW: You’re shitting me?

Anthea: No

John ended the call, finishes his report and sends it to Keller’s email. He shuts everything down as he snuggles into the heat that is Sherlock Holmes. He is satisfied balance has been brought back into the world, his lover has suffered minor physical trauma and hopefully his mental trauma will be ameliorated over time. The killer is still out there and she is not alone. She has money and minions and her sights set on Sherlock Holmes, a pawn in the chess game between her and Mycroft Holmes. 

Sherlock curls possessively around John. Sherlock lets out a sigh of pure contentment. John lets his mind slip into dreams. He will follow Sherlock ‒ to the ends of the earth ‒ past the gates of hell ‒ into the jaws of disaster. Whatever it takes to keep his Sherlock alive, John would gladly pay the price…even unto death.

Sherlock slips his long legs, entangling them with John’s, pulling him snuggly against his body. He is captured now, in a very good way. It is as if they are one body, one soul, one spirit; safe in their Baker Street, home at last.


	8. Trafalgar Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> L and her master attempt to make Sherlock's life difficult. But they underestimate John Watson. The sniper on the roof is unaware of the one at Sherlock's side.

Sherlock watched his John sleep. He gently slipped John’s smaller hand into his. Sherlock knows in his heart John is greater than many men who out strip him in stature. Sherlock has never found a man or a woman, for that matter, that did anything for him. His life is never about caring or connecting. His life is all about challenges and case solving, nothing else ever mattered until John Hamish Watson showed up on Bart’s doorstep. 

Smiling at his lover/companion/protector/friend he is amazed and amused at the turn of events.

(-_-)

LJ stood before her master. Her eyes are not down cast. She stares into his eyes and doesn’t wither beneath his deadly gaze.

“L, I’m very disappointed in your handling of the Mycroft Holmes project.” The master whispered his very calm, menacing disapproval. 

“The project was proceeding as per your request. It wasn’t until this man entered into my space. She pulls up the camera footage of John as he enters the derelict building and proceeds to dispatch L’s people pretty much single handedly.

“I want you to find out everything you can about this man L. I want to know why he’s so adept at destroying my plans.”

“As you desire, I will find out everything.” L said with danger in her eyes. She didn’t like to appear less than perfect in front of her master.

“And call Alistair. Tell him I have a job for him.” 

L is terrifically upset. If the master is going to use Alistair instead of her, she is going to make the interloper with the dodgy leg pay and pay big time for her dishonor. Losing master’s favor is unacceptable.

(-_-)

It was a cold, rainy, windswept day. Trafalgar square isn’t the tourist magnet it is on more temperate days. Still there were people with umbrellas making their way through the wet. Sherlock and John were traversing the square on the way to meeting an informant. As they come close to one of the fountains high powered sniper fire punctuates the air. Sherlock spins with the force of a bullet strike and collapses onto the wet pavement. John ploughs into Sherlock shoving him into the small sheltered space at the base of the fountain. 

Screaming. People are screaming as a deluge of rain begins drowning out the sound of human terror filling the square.

Sherlock wavers back into consciousness. He is crammed into an angle of marble on his left side; someone is on top of him. Pressure. Someone is pressing hard onto his right thigh. Painful pressure.

“John?” Sherlock seeks his lover reaching out to push the pressure away.

Pop! Pop! Pop! The screaming intensifies. POP! POP! Silence.

“Sherlock, hold still. Don't move!” John's voice cuts through Sherlock’s mental confusion. He stills instantly, not questioning John’s command.

“Where are we, what’s happening?” Sherlock is wet, confused and in terrible pain. 

“We’re in the square, remember? By the fountain. There’s a sniper on the Canada building. You’re hit. I have to press hard, Sherlock. I have to stop the bleeding.” John lifts his mobile with his free hand and speed dials Mycroft’s number. Anthea answers and he tells her of their immediate need for assistance.

“John, it hurts. It hurts like hell.” Sherlock can feel himself begin to fade.

In the pelting rain the cries began. People are crying for help; screaming in their own private, painful hells.

John takes his jacket off and drapes it over Sherlock, elevating his feet concerned about shock. He leans over to examine the consulting lover. Sherlock smiles his best little boy smile. John is angry and full of aggression. Sherlock is injured and John rankles at not being able to take action. John catches Sherlock’s smile. In this shitty situation it is a welcomed reminder of Sherlock’s love.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

One of the bullets comes too close and fragments of the fountains marble showers the lovers. John completely covers Sherlock with his body. A small shard of marble strikes his cheek, dangerously close to his right eye.

“John, you have to get out of here.” Sherlock begins, his hand coming up to touch the facial wound. “You’re hurt.”

“Sherlock, we are leaving this place together or not at all. Got that?” John takes Sherlock’s hand and squeezs it firmly. “We are going to get out of this. I will get us out of this. Do you understand?” 

“Hey, you at the fountain, you okay?” A far away masculine voice shouts.

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

“Shit, he's killing the wounded.” John says as he views the killing field the square has become.

“My friend’s wounded, losing blood.” John shouts back.

“Hang on.” the distant voice calls. “Police are on the way.”

Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop! Pop!

All around him John can see the carnage. His heart is racing, his adrenalin pumping but he can do nothing.

“John, are you there?”

“I'm here, Sherlock. It’s okay, you need to rest.”

“John, I’m cold.” Sherlock whispers. “I’m so cold.”

Shock.

“Sherlock, I have to press harder on the wound. I have to stop the bleeding, do you hear me?”

The icy rain now turns to sheets and torrents of water hitting the pavement. John is shivering too, his clothes clinging to him. Sherlock is pale. John presses deeper into the wound. Sherlock shutters with the pain and then falls silent.

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” There is an edge of alarm in John’s voice. The bleedings stopped, at least from the outside. 

“Please, Sherlock. Please.” John places his head against the brunette’s chest. The heart beat is slow, but steady. “Stay with me, love. Help is on the way.”

Scanning the roof tops John knows where the madman is. Mycroft’s people should be the hell here by now. John feels the tremors of anger assault him. He wants to rage against the senselessness of this senseless act.

Holding Sherlock, hoping the warmth of his body will hold the shock at bay. He wants to scream for back-up. He wants to carry Sherlock to safety. He wants to gut shoot the bastard who is above them; killing the innocents below.

From above a helicopter angles into the square and sirens fill the air with their welcomed pervasive sounds. It seems as if they have been there for hours, but as John glances at his watch, it had only been 13 minutes. Gun fire erupts; Mycroft’s people are engaging the sniper. Continued fire ruptures the skies above their heads. 

“John?”Sherlock speaks in a breathy, softly voice. John strains to hear his words. 

“I’m here, Sherlock.”

“My love. I’m sorry I never say those words often enough.”

John feels tears gather behind his eyes, but he would not submit to them.

“It’s going to be okay, Sherlock. Mycroft’s‒,” he stops mid-sentence. Sherlock's hand comes up to caress his fair hair with the tenderness of a long time lover.

“Stay with me, Sherlock. Don’t go. Don’t ever go.” John's words are like a mantra and when Sherlock looks into John’s eyes he sees a fierce possessive passion there which never ceases to amaze.

John watches as Sherlock’s eyes lose focus. He kisses Sherlock’s unresponsive lips.

“Damn.” John speaks softly, the rage inside him ready to burst.

Then, at the edge of the square, men in Kevlar vests with helmets bearing medical insignias are coming into the square in pairs carrying the wounded out, god bless them.

Again, the gun fire from above draws the snipers attention as the paramedics brave the plaza pulling and carrying people to the safety and shelter of the surrounding buildings.

“What we got?” A young man Sherlock's age crouchs next to John and Sherlock, his badge says his name is Wyatt.

“I’m Dr. John Watson, there’s possible arterial damage. I’ll keep pressure on.”

Wyatt begins checking Sherlock’s vitals. “Stan stretcher pronto.” Wyatt yells at his approaching companion.

“I can’t thank you enough,” John says.

“The fat lady hasn’t sung yet, Doctor. We got to get him out of here first.” Wyatt smiles with positive reassurance as the gun fire stops.

With the utmost care, Stan and Wyatt lift Sherlock onto a light-weight stretcher and the three men carry Sherlock out of danger. Stan and Wyatt place the stretcher onto a gurney and strap Sherlock to it. 

“I’m a trauma surgeon,” John says as they lift Sherlock into the ambulance. “I’ll take care of the initial triage.”

“Dr. Watson, caring for your friend is our responsibility now. We can’t let you do that,” Wyatt comments.

Stan goes to the driver’s door, entering the ambulance turning the engine over.

John began hooking Sherlock up to monitors, hanging a bag of Ringers on the hook above him, looking for a good vein to infuse him.

John gives Wyatt a Captains glare and continues with his fast and very efficient triage and stabilization of the patient. Wyatt just sits back and watches as a Doctor who obviously knows this business better than Wyatt does, treats the patient.

(-_-)

At the hospital Sherlock is treated in emergency given a mild sedative at his Doctor’s insistence. Then with the patient calmly unaware he is admitted and placed in a secured room.

“He will be angry at your interference.” Mycroft admonishes as he enters the corridor. John is talking to the minion guard who is outside Sherlock’s room.

“I’ll risk his anger. He would have made this all more difficult than it should be.”

“So you are sure that this was not a terrorist attack.” Mycroft sits on one of the available uncomfortable chairs. John takes one close by. 

“Sherlock was the first hit, it was an easy kill shot, but he was only incapacitated. Then the other victims‒the killer was playing with them, shooting to maim, then later to murder. This was an act of mass murder with the intent of harming Sherlock. This smacks of LJ’s malicious desire to further control you, Mycroft. What about the sniper?”

“Unbelievably, he vanished. No CCTV coverage, he evaporated like the rain clouds that converged over the square. We have no clues or leads anywhere.”

“Sherlock needs to be protected, Mycroft.”

“Understood.” Mycroft stood straightened his vest and buttoned his suit coat. “Thank you, once again, for keeping him alive.”

“No one harms him. No one.” John stood moving back into Sherlock’s room as Mycroft made his way back into the real world.

(-_-)

“John, I want to go home.” Sherlock muttered looking up through long lashed glasz colored eyes that made John quiver inside.

“We’ll be going home in a week or so.” John says as he caresses the riot of curly hair that threatens to take over Sherlock’s face.

“Now, John. This place is unsanitary, odiferous, and most likely hazardous to our health and we can’t shag in this small bed.” 

John looks smugly confident that Sherlock will learn that his Doctor is better than any situation. One perfect and purposefully gentle shag later. 

“I want to go home, John. If I stay here I put the other patients at risk. You know I’m right.” 

John exhales dramatically. “We can’t go home either, Baker Street isn’t defendable, love.”

“I think I know some place that will work for us.”

John gives Sherlock that look, the one he reserves for tempting tidbits that he is going to completely devour. “Where?”

“The Holmes estate.”


	9. Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone is off the Holmes' mansion to better protect Sherlock. But the best lay plans and Mycoft's minions can't work against L and her Masters designs. Ends in a cliffy. Sorry about that. Will work hard on next chapter. >:D

John gunned the BMW Adventure sport motorcycle; Sherlock squeals like a little kid and grips John terrifically hard about his midsection as the cycle lunges forward. John seems to be gunning the engine a lot on the way to the Holmes mansion. Is he trying to get his consulting lover to repeatedly hug him? Sherlock pushes his long, strong hands down John’s chest and further down to his inner thighs and John pops a wheelie as Sherlock clings limpid like to keep from falling off the back of the motorcycle. 

Their clothes are making the trip to the mansion via a long black Jaguar which is bringing up the rear. The motorcycle is a gift from Sherlock’s brother. It is evident the Holmes family is, shall we say, ‘loaded’. They came through the front gate an hour and a half ago and still no sign of the mansion. John calculates he really didn’t want to know just how rich the Holmes’ family is. All he knows is this mansion is supposedly defendable. Until they find L, Sherlock is constantly at risk. Mycroft has promised people to cover the premises. So for this one time he is going to rely on Sherlock’s git of an older brother. 

To protect Sherlock, John will align with the devil himself. This feels exactly like that, but John’s options are few. At least he has some history with some of Mycroft’s field agents. They finally make the front portico of the mansion. It is fucking huge; Mister Darcy’s digs looked like a Popsicle stand next to this place. Yeah, Harry had tied him down and sat on him; making him watch ‘Pride and Prejudice’ not once but twice. Holy shite, what is he getting into with this madman Sherlock Holmes?

A man from the house offers to park his motorcycle in the garage. John politely declines the offer and is shown where to park his baby. Sherlock precedes him into the ‘house’ and John is escorted to the North wing which apparently is where they will be staying for the duration of their visit; the whole fucking wing. 

Opulence. Everywhere there is history and lavish interiors; obvious signs of power, position and very old money.

“Sherlock Holmes, just who the hell are you?” John asks as he places his helmet on the bed side stand and joins his young conspirator on the soft, sweet bed.

“I am the brother of a minor government official.” Sherlock smirks and presses close to John placing himself within kissing range.

“You have got to be kidding me, Sherlock. Since when do ‘minor government officials’ have access to MI6 agents 24/7? Since when do the Holmes’ family have enough money to re-float the Titanic? You aren’t telling me something?”

Sherlock steals a kiss which is glancing but which John latches onto and turns into an extensive lip lock. Breathing is optional. 

Sherlock comes up for minimal amounts of air and stammers back into the thinking world. “We are highly placed in the aristocracy, in the government and internationally our family has a hand in world affairs. If you want specifics‒my mother would be the one to ask, but she’s been a minor government official for sixty-five years now.” Sherlock pulls John down into another kiss.

“I don’t think I want to know.” John says with great conviction.

“I don’t think you want to know.” Sherlock smiles and throws a leg over John engulfing his smaller body with his own.

(-_-)

John can almost imagine they were on vacation, staying at a posh luxury hotel with hot and cold running room service which they will never have to pay for. Aside from John’s meetings with the agents tasked to protect Sherlock, they are in their bedroom for three days and four nights before they decide to make an entrance back into the real world.

“Glad you could pull yourself away from‒whatever you needed to put yourself away from,” Mycroft comments. His façade of calm and uncaring is barely taxed as he plates some breakfast from the buffet that lines the breakfast room. There is enough food for a dozen people.

“Be nice, Mycroft, or John will take me away and you’ll never find us.” Sherlock is being snide. 

“Would you do that John? Would you be able to protect him, alone, without additional aid?” Mycroft raises his intonation on those last words as he stares John down.

“Possibly not,” John admits. “But I can hide us even from the likes of you, Mycroft.” The challenge is given. 

Mycroft sits at the breakfast table as servants pour him coffee which smells like the beans have just been picked off a mountain in Columbia. 

John goes to the buffet and plates himself a healthy breakfast. He places it on the table, goes back and taking a smaller plate he adds a few items he then deposits the plate, plus a large cup of tea in front of Sherlock. The tall brunette takes a deep breath, giving John the I’m-not-eating-that-much evil eye.

Sherlock consumes half of what he’s served and takes his tea back to his room. There are cold cases as well as current cases coming to his PC. And Mayhew is in charge of all photographic recording of crime scenes for the next six weeks as Anderson did a slip and fall, spraining an ankle. So Sherlock is thrilled as Mayhew has been hand-picked and trained by Sherlock to give the most comprehensive photos possible. 

“Okay, he’ll be occupied for at least an hour. What is on your mind? I can tell you have something to say.” John lifts his cup and drains the last of his tea. Putting it down and contemplating Mycroft’s intense glare. 

“You appear to be able to read us better than anyone on this hemisphere.” Mycroft pulls a memory stick out of his vest pocket. “I’ve finally found the missing pieces of your life, John Watson.”

“I knew it was a matter of time. Your people are not as incompetent as they let on. Are you going to tell Sherlock?” John isn’t sure how he feels about this turn of events.

“I think you should tell him yourself. It is, after all, your life.” Mycroft is subtly cognizant of his upper hand in these negotiations. “Do you think he will rationalize what you did, is in any way forgivable?”

“I don’t know. I guess I’ll find out.” John stands, pushes his chair back under the table and strides over to Mycroft plucking the memory stick from his cold hand. He turns to walk to the North wing, to open the door, to face Sherlock, to tell him the truth, to watch to see if shock and terror fills those silver grey/blue eyes. Those eyes that he’d come to love in a way that he’d never known before. Dreading every step, he walks slowly, agonizingly to his lover; John’s torn shoulder throbs with the remembered bullet that shattered him, with the memory of Charles Champion who killed him. Champion who’d taken away his sanity, his self worth and his ability to be the person that he defined himself as; doctor, soldier, sniper.

(-_-)

The initial blast comes from the North wing. John is flung by the shockwave against the adjacent wall. 

“Sherlock!!” John shouts as he lifts off the floor and sprints to the now ruined North wing archway. His gun is in their room. Fuck.

Secondary and tertiary blasts rock the mansion, there is gun fire from outside and in. John gets to their room, grips the door handle; it’s locked. “Sherlock!” John shouts repeatedly. He kicks at the door and it gives on the fourth lunge. The windows are shattered; there are blood splatter marks across the bed, but no Sherlock. John checks the place thoroughly. Nothing. The windows overlook a garden, a rather large garden and it’s in shambles, the blast having compromised part of the building. 

Gun in hand John vaults through the window and lands rolling into greenery. Eyes quick and alert he scans the area thoroughly before moving low amongst the vegetation. Thankfully it is thick and in full bloom. Moving, moving he daren’t call out for Sherlock. John can hear the distant sound of helicopters looming nearer. 

“Where the fuck are you Sherlock?” John whispers to no one. There ahead a form tucked into the base of a large statue. John rushes to Sherlock’s side. “You okay?” Doctor mode takes over and John twists Sherlock so he can see him. There are deep cuts on his face from flying glass, but a cursory review shows no severe injury. 

“I couldn’t get out of the room, John. Someone locked the door. We’ve got moles in the garden.” 

“So I noticed. Is there a good place to get out of line of fire till the MI6 cavalry get a grip on what’s happening?” 

“There is a series of safe rooms below the pantry, but we’ll have to go back into the house to get to them.”

“Follow me, stay low.” John admonishes.

“Do you even know where the pantry is?” Sherlock stays low and follows as John brings them back into the house via a circuitous path. They can hear shots fired but they echo off the interior walls and it is difficult to determine where the sound is emanating from.

(-_-)

The invaders are tasked to find and return with two individuals, they all have a slightly blurry photo of the two men. She only wants them with as little damage as possible. No one will disappoint L. She is a hard mistress and they know to fail is to find a slow and unmerciful death. So they move with precision through the huge mansion. There are many of them and there is strength in their numbers. 

Overhead the helicopters are hovering as troops rappel to the ground; coalescing around the outer perimeters of the mansion. The idyllic fields that surround the Holmes estate have become a war zone. There are dead and dying in the ruins of the once beautiful halls. How can this happen, who has the money, the resources and the balls to do this on British soil? 

John is very aware that this assault is too well planned and executed. He worries that there is no real safe place here. There had been men in positions all about the parameter of the estate. What happened to all of them? What he sees in the halls and corridors of the mansion is nothing new to him. This is a kill all, not capture sortie. He contemplates what to do next. Where the hell is Mycroft and is it better to leave the confines of the mansion and go to ground in the surrounding countryside?

John keeps Sherlock close. This isn’t L, but quite possibly the master mind behind her. Whoever it is has upped his game. John can’t count on anyone but himself. Mycroft may have even been killed in this attack. If he is dead what is motivating the killer‒or killers now? You can’t manipulate a dead man. What is the new purpose? What does anyone gain by this blood bath?

There are too many questions and not enough answers. This makes John very edgy. 

“What do you make of all this Sherlock? You’re the genius in the room.” John whispers as they take refuge in a niche along the main hall.

“As you have surmised the original tactic to use me as hostage to my brother is no longer valid. I would theorize that this is more to engage or enrage my family. More revenge than an actual plan of action. There isn’t enough data to give good summations.”

The gun fire is getting closer. Then men in suits, guns drawn, ear pieces predominate in their right ears, come from around a corner. They look to be Mycroft’s minions. John thrusts Sherlock behind him.

“John Watson?” The lead agent demands.

“Where’s Keller,” John asks?

“John!” Sherlock screams. “It’s a trap!” 

The taser electrodes shoot into John and Sherlock almost instantaneously. They twist uncontrollably and collapse to the floor with John lying across Sherlock’s body; protecting his lover even in his unconscious state. 

(-_-)

Sherlock comes to as several men jostle him about as they carry him to a waiting truck.

“John,” he calls out needing to know his lover is okay. “John!” He struggles but the effects of being tasered linger and as he strains and continues to try to see where John is, he is manacled, his hands in front of him. It is a long ride to somewhere chained to the floor of the truck. John is not with him and this worries Sherlock terrifically.

Finally the truck stops and the sliding door at the back opens letting in the fumes of the city and the smells of river at low ebb. Sherlock is taken into an industrial style building, one of thousands that fill up this disused part of town. 

He is set down very un-gently upon the rough tiled floors and several men stand guard over him, their guns drawn and aimed at his head. They do not fear his escape. He is captive and therefore not going to be a serious threat to their orders to detain him.

“Where is John?” Sherlock demands, he is completely himself now and will not to be rattled by L’s thugs. 

L enters the room. Her men stand more to attention. She looks only at the tall brunette seated on the cold floor. “So nice of you to visit, Sherlock.”

“Bring John here,” Sherlock demands, bearly able to control his temper. “What have you done with him?

“Your partner in crime solving is close. I’m afraid he’s been a bit damaged in transport. Things like that happen, sadly. My men were happy to see him again after he trashed most of them at my other facility. Bring the good Doctor in for Mister Holmes,” she says over her shoulder the door opens and more men come in carrying a limp and battered John with them.

John is dropped down next to Sherlock, who gathers the doctor as close as his manacled hands will allow. He has been beaten and his movements are subdued and his speech slurred. The damage done to his body is considerable, but worse Sherlock determines that a drug has been administered.

“I will leave you with your lover. Enjoy his company while you can. For I will take great delight in letting you watch as I kill him slowly.” Her dark eyes reflect her delight in the murder to come. “Then you will follow him.” Sherlock can see there is nothing but malicious intent in every line and angle of her vicious countenance.

She exits and all her minions follow her out. Sherlock and John are in a locked room with only one door.

“John, ‒John speak to me love,” Sherlock wipes the blood from John’s face with his coat sleeve. Taking several picks from a hiding place in the lining of his suit coat he opens the lock of the manacles and places them in his pocket. He pulls John into his lap and looks at the dire marks upon his face. He pulls up John’s shirt to see the forming bruises on his ribs. “John can you walk, we have to get out of here.”

John takes minutes to comprehend Sherlock’s words. “Get out of here, Sherlock.” He pushes Sherlock away with what little strength he has left. “Go. For me, go.”

“Not leaving you,” Sherlock says with surety. He examines the room in which they are sequestered. The building is old the sheet rock of the room has long ago been compromised, but how much noise can be transmitted without attracting attention? 

He drags John nearer the wall and removes the hand cuffs from his pocket. Using his considerable strength, he jams the metal into the compromised sheet rock. He pulls the metal through the crumbling material and begins making a hole. He has surmised correctly, no studs bar his way. He kicks the circular piece of sheet rock in, pulls it out of the hole and begins on the other side of the wall. 

John isn’t capable of much, his body unresponsive to his commands. He knows that Sherlock can get out of this by himself. He just has to convince him to leave and go for help, but how to do that?

“Sherlock, you have to go‒get help. I’m going to slow you‒. You have to go.” John tries to put some command into his voice but he is foggy from the drug. There isn’t a great deal of strength behind his words.

Sherlock stops momentarily turning to look John directly in the eyes; John can feel Sherlock’s deep hurt. “I will not leave you in the hands of a mad woman. There will be no further discussion on this.” Sherlock pulls John into a smothering hug that is tight and totally possessive.

John loses himself in the embrace. How can he hope to send his lover away when he feels such strong attachment? How can he allow Sherlock to stay, knowing they will both die at L’s hand? Not just death but torture at the hands of a known psychopath who revels in the process.

Sherlock is through the wall and reaching back to retrieve John. They are into the next room and it isn’t locked. Sherlock pulls John up onto his feet at his side. John isn’t able to stand or locomote without assistance. It’s hopeless. John makes no comment. He has to find some solution to his problem. Sherlock must live. He will willingly sacrifice his life to make sure his love keeps breathing; no matter that his death will cause Sherlock unbelievable sorrow.

Slowly they move through the darkened halls, being as quiet as they can. John hopes the adrenalin of the situation will counter the drugs in his system.

“Sherlock?” John whispers.

“Not going to talk about it, John,” Sherlock counters.

“Hide me, you big brain. Hide me so she won’t find me and get help.” John prays this strategy will work. 

“Okay‒that might work.’ Sherlock is slightly snipped that he hadn’t thought of it first.

(-_-)

Sherlock slips John into the small space and kisses him with great passion. Possessively. “Don’t you move from here, John.” Sherlock stammers out; finding it hard to leave his lover’s side. But he leaves knowing the logic of the action is sound for their survival.

Ten minutes later Sherlock comes across Keller, Scout and Dave from Serpent’s Tooth. Overcome with relief Sherlock actually grabs Keller’s face and kisses his forehead. 

“John’s still in there.” Sherlock is winded from running and ecstatic to find their rescuers so soon.

From off in the distance fire engines begin to route their way towards the derelict warehouse area they are standing in. Sherlock turns to see smoke rising from the building he exited ten minutes ago. 

“No, god NO!─JOHN!”


	10. Not near enough to the fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock runs into a burning industrial building to save John. But John is not where he left him. Will they escape the burning building. Did L start the fire to 'smoke' them out? There are hostiles still in the building, how will it work out? Who will save our boys from the fire?

Dave, Scout and Keller have a death grip on Sherlock but it is taking every ounce of their combined strength to subdue the insane man in their hands. Sherlock seeks only to rush back into the burning building.

“You don’t understand. John is in there. I have to go help him out. He’s been drugged; he’ll never make it out on his own. Let. Me. Go!” With that the man known as Sherlock Holmes escapes his rescuers and sprints faster than a cheetah toward the smoking industrial building.

“Shit,” Keller exclaims and starts leveling commands into his mic/earwig; listening to the chatter that is snarling up communications. “Everyone to the building on fire; John Watson is in there somewhere. Notify the advancing fire department that we have people and possible hostiles inside as well. They can’t enter the building nor even approach it until all hostiles have been neutralized.”

Dave has a tablet out and he and Scout are bent over it and conferring about site plans and possible exits and people on the ground. Keller turns toward them and is unwilling to let them out of his sight. 

“Coming?” He says with patience to his counterparts in Sherlock’s hacker and homeless networks. “We have got to find that mad git before his fries his ass or we’re all going to go down in flames with him. Mycroft Holmes is not a man whose brother you want to let die in a fire.” The three men start running in a more sedate pace that wouldn’t take them into the flaming building just yet.

(-_-)

Sherlock re-enters the now burning industrial. There are no immediate flames in his area, but the smoke is everywhere and getting thicker. He slowly makes his way to the third floor where he left John. The smoke necessitates that he crawl most of the way. He’s moving floor by floor using stair wells that are also slowly getting clogged with smoke. The higher he goes the worst it gets. Finally he’s at the right floor and he climbs the shelving against the southern wall, shoving aside the ceiling tile that exposes the lowered ceiling and a crawl space. The air up here is slightly more breathable than below. Air is coming in from somewhere. No John. 

“John!” Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs. “John!” No answer. Sherlock hoists himself up into the crawl space where there is some ambient light. There against the far wall light and air is coming from above. His John wouldn’t stay in the smoke. This is an old building; the fire escapes are on the outside of the structure. John would have to go to the roof to get to the escape ladder, but he’d have to be careful. L’s people and maybe even L are still at large. Most likely she set the fire hoping that Sherlock and John would get caught in the conflagration. The bitch will pay for this, he thinks.

The fire engines are silent. Sherlock knows that Keller will keep everyone out. He can’t risk the first responders, not even for a Holmes. Swat will be on the scene soon, but the fire won’t wait for anyone. He and John are on their own for now. Sherlock climbs the rebar ladder that extrudes from the wall. He’s trying to go as fast as he dare, but still be on the lookout for an ambush. There is a trap door above that’s open to the roof. Sherlock shifts the gun that he pick-pocketed off Keller from his inner pocket to the small of his back.

He rises up out of the building and cranes around looking for John. There, there he is. A prone figure on the light colored roof next to what appears to be a door structure that comes up from the stair well.

Hoisting himself out of the opening at light speed he rushes to John. Gently he moves his lover onto his side. “Shit.” Sherlock is shocked. There a new injuries on his face. He wants more than anything to lift John into his embrace, but he remembers what John has drilled into his thick skull. ‘Don’t move injury victims.’ “What that hell have they been doing to you?” He is beyond angry.

L moves out from behind the standing structure of the stair well. She has John’s Browning aimed at them. “Ah, my young Holmes, come back to me. I knew you’d be back for him. Even through the fires of hell, you’re just that kind of guy aren’t you?”

“Buildings on fire L, we have to get the hell out of here.” Sherlock is rabid, knowing L is the one who’s hurt John further.

L’s mobile rings, she pulls it out of her pocket and thumbs it to speaker. All the while keeping the gun trained on John, knowing that will control Sherlock effectively.

“What’s happening L? I’m hearing there’s a fire at the number 10,” a male voice with a melodic brogue questions? 

“Master, I have Holmes and Watson. There is a fire at number 10, I can pull this out and complete my mission.”

“L, I’m not in the mood for your antics. You had your shot. I told you to turn this one over to Bworz.” There is a dark condemnation in the man’s tone.

“I have them,” she presses. “Master, I have them.”

“You’ve tried my patience, L.”

L’s head explodes as the sniper bullet shatters it splattering Sherlock and John with blood and brain matter as she drops to the roof. There is no doubt that she is dead. 

Sherlock grabs her mobile and flings it as far as he can over the furthest edge of the roof.

“Sherlock,” John says opening his eyes. “You okay? Get to cover.” John is grabbing Sherlock by his great coat and together crouching and running they make it to the stair well entrance. 

Sherlock is so happy to see those midnight blue eyes filled with their normal intelligence and sparkling with danger. 

“Possum, really John?” Sherlock pulls a disbelieving face at John as he engulfs John from behind in a rib cracking hug.

“Later love,” John has retrieved his Browning as he passes L’s shattered body. Smoke is coming up the stair well and pouring out of the building. John is looking for the sniper, following the given trajectory. “He could have had us right there. We should be dead. L’s master has other plans for you Sherlock. You should never have come back.” John didn’t say _for me._

“Bloody hell, I wasn’t going leave you here with that mad woman.” Sherlock is getting his ire up. “I will never leave you, John.” Sherlock can’t help but look at the bruises and abrasions that mar John’s well worn and much loved face. “Don’t ever ask me to do that. Keller, Dave and Scout are out there trying to get to us.” 

“Well that’s some good news at least.” John checks the Browning, she’s ready. Gunfire erupts from several locations inside and outside the building. 

“There are ten of L’s men still inside but Keller has more people on the ground. If you stay close to me we could chance moving to the edge of the roof and look for the fire escape,” Sherlock says confidently.

“We’re not chancing anything. You are staying right here with me until we get back‒up and know that L’s people are dead or captured.”

Sherlock embraces John from behind, burying his face into the back of John’s neck. 

“I thought I’d lost you, that the fire had taken you from me,” Sherlock says.

John brings his left hand up to caress Sherlock’s face. “I’m in this for the long haul, you daft idiot. Nothing and no one breaks our bond.” John shifts uncomfortably. Sherlock can tell that he’s putting too much weight on John who is still suffering from serious beatings. Easing back a bit, Sherlock leaves a gentle kiss on the nape of John’s neck.

The gunfire has stopped but the fire in the building is getting more intense. The smoke from the door structure is roiling and causing John and Sherlock discomfort. Covered with blood and brain matter, they are now sooty as well. 

“There’s still a sniper out here, Sherlock. I can almost feel him. He’s over there on the roof of that building, a story above us. We can’t risk moving from shelter.”

They can hear the windows bursting out below them. 

“The fire’s changing the internal pressure of the building. If it gets too hot the roof will collapse,” Sherlock warns. “Take my coat. I’m pretty sure they want me alive. I know you won’t let me go out there. Take my coat, go out there and find the fire escape. At least give us a chance of getting off the roof before it goes.”

Sherlock watches as John weights the pros and cons of the idea. 

“I’ll do this only if you promise to wait for me here.” John voice is stern‒but his eyes betray him‒Sherlock can see his love shining through.

“I promise.” Sherlock says as he removes his coat and hands it over to John.

John puts the coat on, making himself the smallest target possible he leaves the shelter of the door way and goes to the edge of the roof following its perimeter till he spots the fire escape railing. Quickly he returns to his lover. Terrified, Sherlock relaxes visibly as John settles next to him.

“We can get off. I’ll go first, draw his fire, give you cover as you make it to the escape.”

“No.” Sherlock isn’t listening to his bull shit. We are damn well going together. I’ll leave the Belstaff here. The sniper won’t know who is who.”

“He could just shoot both of us, you know. We’ve been lucky up till now. With a scope he could tell us apart if he concentrates hard enough.”

Sherlock says “Oh.”

John can tell Sherlock is having one of his Eureka moments. 

“Give it?” John squints at his brunette.

Sherlock took Keller’s gun out of his pants waist band. Using it like a hammer he drives the hinges free letting the door ‒the old, solid wood door to come down in front of them.

“It won’t stop the bullets but it will slow them down.”

“You are a genius.” John says as he ruffles the large curliness that is Sherlock’s hair. Using his coat sleeve he swipes it across Sherlock’s spattered and sooty face. Leaning in, he thoroughly kisses his mad genius. Then he pushes them both back into the inner wall of their safe haven.

Sherlock can tell John’s energy reserves are waning. The adrenalin rush is quickly evaporating; the injuries are taking their toll. 

More crashing of glass from below can be heard.

“John that’s the firemen breaking windows,” Sherlock is ecstatic.

“You can tell the difference‒of course you can,” John smiles wearily.

“This means L’s people are neutralized and Mycroft’s minions are letting the firemen in. They are cross ventilating the building so they can better attack the blaze. Tricky stuff that. So are we going to do this? The door will cover us to the fire escape but we won’t be able to use it going down.”

John takes a deep breath and leans his head back on the door structure as he closes his eyes. “Sherlock, my energy levels are nearly gone.”

“Not leaving you again,” Sherlock says.

“Then I guess we wait for the firemen to get to us.” John says sadly. “That is unless my resident genius can get us off the building? You have any wings in the pocket of your Belstaff?”

“Nothing here on the roof to work with, I’m going down the stair well a bit. See if I can find anything to help us out.”

“Sherlock, I can’t have you risking asphyxiation. There are toxic gases in the smoke.”

“I have more than a passing knowledge of the contents of smoke.” Sherlock tucks up, turns and starts crawling down the stairs before John can argue further or stop him.

John is distraught knowing even Sherlock can’t hold his breath long enough to get too far. “God, I’m going to kill him when he gets back.” John keeps looking for the sniper. Has he left the building or is he waiting for them to break cover. The fact that they hadn’t been killed with L is encouraging, but‒.

From the North end of the building an amplified voice is talking. “Sherlock, Sherlock if you can hear me. Give us a sign‒where are you? Firefighters are entering the building.”

“On the roof! Possible sniper on the roof of building to the north!” John shouts as loud as he can. “Sherlock get your arse back up here.” John yells down the stair well.

John can hear gun fire from the other building. Hopefully they have the sniper in hand. From down in the stair well he hears mechanical noise like fans being turned on. The smoke comes rushing out of the stair well, followed by a very bedraggled Sherlock Holmes. He’s coughing hard enough to cause him to vomit.

“Damn it, Sherlock.” John drags his lover to him and begins loosening his tight clothing, placing him on his side so that he can maintain a clear airway. Sherlock is panting, coughing he appears confused and struggles against John’s attempts to sooth him.

“What, where‒John‒where’s John?” Sherlock asks as he continues to flail about.

“I’m right here Sherlock.” John tries to soothe the tall brunette. “Don’t thrash around so, love. Be still. I’m here; we’re going to be all right.”

“Johns hurt; I have to get to him. Let me go. I have to save him. He’s everything. He’s my life.” Sherlock is distraught and continues to try to break free of John’s hold on him.

“Sherlock, I’m here. I’m safe. You’ve saved me, you madman, my beautiful genius. Whatever you’re thinking, think on this. I love you. We beat the devil-bitch-from hell. Mycroft’s people are all over the building‒.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock practically spits the name out. Finding in himself the clarity he feels for his governmentally esteemed and deeply despised elder brother.

“There you go,” John smiles “I knew we could get you back on track. Breathe slow and easy now. Medics will be here shortly. We’ll put you on oxygen and you’ll be just fine. All fine.” John gathers Sherlock up in his warm embrace and Sherlock, finally recognizes his lover, holding him tight.

John breathes a sigh of relief and the silence is broken but the storm of people coming onto the roof.

Scout and Dave come up the fire escape as medical personal arrive on the scene via the now cleared stair well. Sherlock is taken from John as the medical team separates them to be worked on separately. Keller arrives on scene with his entourage of minions in tow. 

“Watson,” Keller sees that of the two of his charges, Watson appears more with it. “I need a full report as soon as I can get one.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” John says, exhaustion warring with duty and exhaustion winning. “When I’ve rested, eaten, slept and made sure Sherlock is fine, I’ll be all over it.”

“How is Sherlock?” Keller asks.

“I believe he is suffering from mild smoke inhalation, nothing that some oxygen and rest won’t alleviate. Did you get the sniper on the other roof?”

“He didn’t go down easy, but we got him. I’m just happy that Holmes is alright. His brother can be pretty difficult when his sibling is involved.”

“L is dead; killed by her own people. One less psycho in London, but why’d they take her out? That’s troubling.”

“I want coroner transports as well as more police vehicles to pick up suspects, forensics and a major clean-up crew at number 10 Bywater Street ASAP. We have a serious mess to comb through and clean up before end of day.”

(-_-)

Medics start IV’s on both patients and they are strapped down to gurneys as they are transported to separate waiting ambulances.

“Mr. Holmes is being given oxygen and a mild sedative to calm him down; he appears to be doing well.” The paramedic told John.

John could see that the medic had an earwig and was probably in touch with the other ambulance. Mycroft‒‒Mycroft was probably facilitating this communication; knowing that John would be desperate for word on Sherlock’s status. 

“Tell Mycroft I appreciate his providing this information for me.” John smiles at the paramedic and he smiles back. “Shouldn’t be we close to the hospital now?” John asks.

“You’re being taken to a private facility, Dr. Watson. Not to worry, you and Mr. Holmes will be given the very best of care.”

John settles in for the ride. Knowing Mycroft would only accept the very best of care for his little brother. Slowly, softly John drifts away not hearing the words spoken or the ambulance stopping or his gurney being unloaded. He doesn’t hear anything and his mind is given over to the silence and the much needed sleep.

(-_-)

Dave and Scout commandeer a ride to the hospital to follow Sherlock and John. They call Lestrade to let him know about the situation and give him a status report. Upon their arrival it is found that neither John nor Sherlock has been admitted. Hurriedly other local hospitals were called. Lestrade arrives and speed dials Mycroft’s number to see if John and Sherlock had been taken to a special black ops hospital for the governmentally exalted or that infamously under known secret agents frequent. Mycroft is adamant that nothing like that has happened. Upon further investigation, ambulance units had been called, but within minutes the order had been cancelled and the units had stood down. Somewhere in the big bad world John Watson and Sherlock Holmes have been taken away, to where and by whom; that is the question.

The search ensues. The Homeless Network and Sherlock’s computer hacker network Serpents Tooth begin an all out assault on the city looking for the missing couple. MI5 and MI6 are scrambled. Mycroft is the power behind the government; no expense is spared, no stone unturned, all the usual suspects are plucked from his or her reality and turned inside out for information. Nothing. Nada. Zip. The big goose egg. It’s another day in London town. The winter rains are deluging the city. It is cold, grey and the rain washes away the stale air and people scurry to their warm places. It’s not a night to be out in it. It’s not that kind of night at all.

(-_-)

John wakes and his mind is fuzzy and his mouth is dry. He’s naked in bed. There is a blazing furnace on his right side. His lover is curled away from him. John moves to encircle Sherlock. His left hand is caught in something. He stares at his arm. His wrist is manacled in some kind of a plastic like substance. John startles now. There is danger here. With his free right hand he gathers Sherlock up against him; shaking his sleeping lover.

“Sherlock.” The tall man is limp in his strong embrace. “Sherlock.” John scans the room. The colors and placement of objects give the overall feel of their bedroom. But closer inspection shows that it isn’t. This is no hospital. This isn’t 221B. Sherlock is moving sluggishly. John tugs on the white material that encircles his left wrist. He is tied to the bed frame. It feels like the white material is glued to his skin. There is very little give. 

He does a thorough examination of Sherlock. He has not been restrained and though he looks the worse for wear due to the ravages of the industrial fire. He appears okay. “Sherlock, I need you alert. I need you to listen to me.”

Sherlock shakes that magnificent head of dark curls as if casting off water after a drenching rain. He looks into John’s eyes and happiness invades those crystal blue laser eyes. He hugs John close breathing in is lover; basking in the warmth of his beloved.

“Sherlock, we’re not in the hospital. I’ve been restrained. We need to know where we are. The last thing I remember is being taken away by ambulance from the warehouse.”

“I was in the smoky stair well, I was trying to get back to you and I got lost.” Sherlock said his brain finally coming back on line and he too gave their surrounds a determined stare. “L’s dead this isn’t her doing. Unless her minions hi-jacked us in the ambulance.”

“Hello, my dears.” A soft voice with just a hint of brogue sounds from everywhere. “I do hope that you are feeling better after your ordeal?” The voice inquires.

John places his left foot on the floor and pushed gently on the bed to see if it can be moved. No movement. Sherlock is free, but he’d never leave John behind again, not after the fire. John is thinking a mile a minute. He looks into those genius eyes and practically wills them to find answers.

“You have us at a disadvantage,” Sherlock begins. “You know who we are. I can tell by your voice that you are L’s master. The man who had her killed on the roof top.”

“Yes, clever boy. I’m that very same man. I do find it difficult to keep my toys from breaking. That’s the problem with toys they never really meet your expectations do they.” He gave a snickery giggle that chilled Sherlock to the bone. 

“Just what the hell do you want with us and who the hell are you?” John snaps twisting and turning his wrist trying to find some way to rid himself of the binding, but only proceeds to tear skin.

“I’m the very essence of secrecy. The man not found. Not even looked for. My name is Moriarty. James Moriarty. My devoted followers call me‒‒.”

“Master.” Sherlock breathes the name.

“And I’m here to take what I want.” Jim’s voice has an edge to it now.

“He wants me.” Sherlock says without hesitation. “He wants to take me away from you John.”

“Not going to happen.” John crushes Sherlock to his side in bitter defiance of Moriarty’s plan.

Sherlock beings to tremble in John’s arm. He turns to look at John and there is fear and desperation on his exquisite face.

“What is it love‒‒what’s happening?”

Sherlock is swaying now, wrenching himself from John’s grasp.

“Sherlock!” John is upset and angry and not knowing what the hell is happening.

“If you don’t come with me I will make you do terrible things.” Moriarty says. His voice is venom eating the heart out of all who listen.

Sherlock stands his nude body a perfect sculpture of ageless beauty. There is a bed side stand on his side of the bed. He opens the small door on the stand and pulls the Browning out. He double hands the grip. His eyes wide now and his mouth open in disbelief as he moves the gun to aim at John’s head.

“Sherlock, what the hell?” John can’t believe his eyes. Can’t believe and neither, it seems, can Sherlock.”

“He’s my puppet on a string now. He’ll do whatever I want him to. Shall I have him kill you Watson? Would you like to see what that does to his brilliant mind?”

“No, I will not go with you. I will NOT kill John.” Sherlock yells.

John can see him straining to move the gun away. Sweat glistens on his face. He is shaking, his tremors becoming stronger and stronger.

“Stop!” John says. Sherlock begins to lower the gun. “Go with him.” John demands of Sherlock. “Go with him and forget me. The best man has won and I concede defeat.” John lowers his eyes and rounds his shoulders. “Leave me,” John shouts at Sherlock, making him wince at the roughness of John’s voice.

“That’s a good man.” Moriarty says soothingly. “Come Sherlock. Don’t look back. Your doctors not worth a second thought.” 

Sherlock turns toward the only door, the gun limp in his hands. He moves slowly. As the door opens, John can hear a sob of self destructive sorrow escape Sherlock’s lips. John watches as the door closes on Sherlock. He tamps down the rage in his heart. He cannot fathom what has transpired. How Moriarty has such control over John’s lover and his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you call me on the mind control thing. Google Non-invasive Brain to Brain Interface (BBI). Neural interface systems (NIS). Focused ultra sound (FUS). There are people actually working on this kind of control. Right now human thoughts can affect the brain of a mouse with the proper equipment. So not so sci-fi but a focus for something in our future. Now whether that is a good thing or not, I leave to you, my dear reader.


	11. Puppet without Strings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty controls Sherlock. John is in pursuit. The mad scramble to find Sherlock is on.

Sherlock was dressed to the nines, a band of metal locked tight around his neck, its etched surface making it look like a piece of expensive jewelry, but it is a slave collar; he was Moriarty’s slave. Sitting in the leather chair he looked relaxed, completely motionless. The outer facade of his person looked as exotic and beautiful as ever. But look closely‒‒ his laser blue/grey eyes were dull, his skin stretched too thin across his strikingly beautiful features. Even his mighty dark curls looked lackluster and you could tell. You could see. He was waging a war, an intellectual war with the man who had placed that collar on him; a war that he was not winning at the moment. 

“I will force you do whatever I want. Do you understand?” Jim yells those last words for effect. The ‘crown’ on Moriarty’s head allows him to focus ultrasound commands that control Sherlock’s every move. Moriarty revels in his ability to manipulate the world’s only consulting detective. 

Sherlock doesn’t flinch, his eyes unseeing. When he cannot fight the man who controls him he is goes back into his Mind Palace. There Sherlock replayed his last moments with John. He had aimed the gun at John’s head. The gun was loaded, not with blanks, but with real bullets. Sherlock couldn’t understand what was going on at the time. He couldn’t understand why he’d threatened John? He didn’t know what Moriarty was doing to him. The look on John’s face, the betrayal, the shock, the disbelief, god he’d given up. John had given Sherlock up. He’d quit. That wasn’t his John. Never. He’d just been feigning his surrender to buy them some time, right? Moriarty told him that John had been killed as he’d had whisked Sherlock away. That could not be true. John was alive. Sherlock’s thoughts are careening around in his skull like a massive rocket unable to launch, like a computer overclocked and ready to crash. Moriarty refused to show him the body. John wasn’t dead.

Moriarty commands Sherlock to his bedroom. Sherlock goes. Jim can not force Sherlock into his bed, but he can make him watch as he performs his perverted acts on a plethora of his chosen bed partners. Sherlock will retreat to his Mind Palace. Will find John there. Will curl up in John’s unconditionally loving embrace. Sherlock will stay until he’s mentally released. Then he will crawl away to sleep on the cold floor. He feels nothing. He aches inside for John. Nothing matters but John. He sees John's aggrieved look. “Don’t give up Sherlock.” John says with storm clouds in his eyes. Tomorrow he will be forced to eat, to drink. Tomorrow John will walk through the door. Tomorrow comes and goes and comes again and still no John; no John at all.

(-_-)

John had not been killed at Moriarty’s last holding site, but that had been the plan. To kill John, taking all hope of rescue away from Sherlock to show him the dead body at some later date and rub his nose in the fact that his lover was dead. Quite dead. That had been the plan, but Serpent’s Tooth, the Homeless network and Mycroft’s minions working together had found John within moments of Sherlock’s removal. Good thing too because John would have gnawed off his left hand to free himself from the blasted, bloody synthetic tentacle that held him to the bed.

Shite, he is tired, still healing and hurting and he wanted Sherlock back at his side. He wanted his lover back. John knew with certainty that Moriarty had taken Sherlock, not as hostage to his brother, but as mind slave for himself.

Dave, Nick and Cindy from Serpent’s Tooth are all at Baker Street now. The flat had been turned into a computer command center. 221C has been turned into a crash pad/eating station where everyone could go to get food and sleep for a while. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, had taken everyone under her wing. Nobody wants for hugs or food. She is the rock of 221B and the undisputed center of all things British.

They had explained to John what transpired within the special room where he and Sherlock had awoken. New non‒invasive Brain to Brain interface had been in development for many years. It worked brilliantly letting humans using thoughts amplified by ultrasound to control an animal’s behavior. But there had been severe ethical questions about its use on human beings. Some countries banned its use. Some promoted it. Apparently Moriarty had poured money into his R & D teams and had a working model. The ultrasound room had been trained on Sherlock. Moriarty had used the BBI (Brain to Brain Interface) to control Sherlock’s brilliant mind. Everyone was pretty sure that this room was a proto – type. There were definite signs that smaller and more portable units were now in play.

“We have to find him.” John commanded. “Every moment he stays enslaved by Moriarty will be bring another crack in his sanity. Moriarty knows I wasn’t killed, but Sherlock doesn’t.”

“There are other considerations here,” Cindy said. “This procedure hasn’t been used in human trials yet. There is no way of knowing if this is going to have any lasting or detrimental effects on Sherlock. Early indications are that there are no negative reports, but this has only been tested in animal trials.”

Mycroft stood at the door way as if waiting for permission to enter. John noticed him and nodded him in. There is still some minor tension between the two men which is completely negated by their mutual desire to bring Sherlock home. 

All incoming data from any source was now being dispersed to everyone involved. So confidence was high that Sherlock would be found soon.

John turned to all his partners in this endeavor. “I want to propose a tactic which I’m sure will be vetoed by everyone here. I am willing to listen to any and all arguments, but they had better be good. I’m not seeing too many options right now and we don’t have time.”

John had the floor. “Nick has a tracker that he can plant subcutaneously, much deeper than most devices. Harder to detect, but with satellite assistance available it has a greater range and ease of tracking.”

“You’re talking about making yourself available to Moriarty?” Mycroft was ahead of the game.

“Yes.” John could see the disbelief in everyone’s eyes. “We haven’t come up with solid Intel for over days now. I don’t want to wait around any longer.”

“Battery life of this device?” Mycroft was already trying to check for all variable outcomes.

“The device is powered by John’s heart. The miniscule amount of energy needed is always present as long as John’s heart beats.”

“He could just kill you on sight.” Cindy commented. “Drag your dead body in front of Sherlock. That would kill him, John. To think that you’d put yourself in danger only to die at the hands of this mad man.”

“We are going to make it more enticing for him to keep me alive,” John said.

The immediate response is for everyone to try to dissuade John at once. This was a reckless and foolhardy decision on his part. From the back of the little group Mrs. Hudson stepped forward, her back straight, bright eyes on John.

“You do what you have to do, bring Sherlock home John. I trust you to make it work.” Then turning she lifted a tray of empty coffee cups and moved out of the flat and down the stairs. Everyone toed the carpet. How could you go against the force of nature that was Mrs. Hudson? 

“How do you propose to make yourself indispensable?” Mycroft comes forward. He would be the one person who had the power to stop John physically. Mycroft can have John ‘detained’ if he so desired, can in fact throw a governmental sized monkey wrench into anything they want to do.

“I think he’s always wanted Sherlock. I think he’s wanted to recruit him to be his partner in crime, two brilliant minds playing the same game; but Sherlock and I found each other. Sherlock will have none of him now. And killing me will only inflame Sherlock to further resistance. No, Moriarty needs something else to make his little plan work.”

“You’re going to offer to do what you did in the lab where you woke up. You’re going to make Sherlock think that you don’t love him anymore,” Cindy says. “He’ll never believe it John. Sherlock will know you are faking it and so will Moriarty.”

“John, you are going to reveal to Sherlock some of the holes in your history. John you know you may lose Sherlock forever. He may not want you in his life after you tell him.” Mycroft had deduced John's plan.

“The truth isn’t always what we want to hear, Mycroft. If it will allow me to snatch Sherlock from Moriarty’s grasp, then I am willing to lose his love and my relationship with him to keep him safe.”

“Commendable John, your self – sacrifice for Queen and country and to save Sherlock, but I won’t let you do this. Moriarty will kill you and it will destroy Sherlock to watch you die. We will find another way.”

“There is no other way, Mycroft.” John says with a cold menace in his voice. 

“Keller.” Mycroft steps aside as Keller and several of his men advance up the stair case.

“Sorry about this Watson.” Keller says as he handcuffs John, the cuffs going on his wrists holding them in front of John’s body.

“Is John being arrested?” Nick questions.

“He’s being taken into protective custody.” Keller announces.

“Is that even legal?” Dave advances to step toward John. Several of Keller’s men come in between him and John.

“Leave it Dave.” John warns him off. “Can I at least have access to the incoming data?” John asks of Mycroft.

Mycroft nods and Dave takes John's WiFi enabled mobile off the coffee table and hands it to John as he is ushered out.

“We’ll keep you up to speed,” Nick says.

As John is taken down the stairs, Scout was coming up. “John what’s going on?” Scout looked aghast at the handcuffs. 

“Talk to Cindy up stairs, Scout.” Make sure you take good care of Sasha, okay.” John says as he passes Scout.

“Sure John.” Scout leans against the wall as they escort John out the door and into a waiting black car.

(-_-)

Sherlock is being as much of a pain in the arse as he can. He’s found that if he stimulates his pain receptors he can focus on the pain and slow his response to Moriarty’s commands. It’s not much but it irks the hell out of Moriarty. So now Sherlock finds himself in a time out in an empty room. He is fighting in the only way he can. He knows days have passed, he knows that John is coming. He has to stay strong for John. Walking to his Mind Palace he finds John there and that is all he needs. Just some time with John will help him hang on a little longer.

(-_-)

“Why the hell are they taking Dr. John away? What is going on?” Scout is totally upset that Mycroft’s people are interfering with the search for Sherlock.

“They say he’d going into protective custody. But I think Mycroft’s just worried that John is going try to get captured by Moriarty again.” Nick says.

“Cindy, Dr. John said to take care of Sasha, what did he mean?” Scout said.

“Holy crap,” Nick said as he went to one of the many computers hooked up all over the flat. The tracking device I inserted into John. It’s called an 8A8HA. He was telling us he’d going ahead with his plan. He wants us to active the tracker and watch him.”

“Not good,” Scout said, “really not good.”

(-_-)

John is taken to a ‘safe’ house. One with bars on the windows and locked doors, he knows that Scout will tell Cindy about Sasha and now all he has to do is get the fuck out of Mycroft’s extremely tight clutches. He sits on the soft bed and looks around to see what he has to work with. Not much.

Several hours into the ‘safeness’, someone opens his door and has the handcuffs again.

“What’s going on?” John wants to know.

“I’m afraid we are going to have to move you, Doctor Watson. There been a disturbance down the road and we would like to keep you away from any future mishaps.”

“What kind of mishaps,” John inquires? 

“Nothing we can’t handle,” the minion says soothingly. 

“We aren’t talking about some tea party here,” John is livid. “This is Moriarty. He’s more dangerous than you could possibly imagine – what’s your name?”

“Parker, Sir.” Parker is a young agent. 

John is not soothed. “I want to speak to Mycroft, right now.”

“Once we have moved you out of here, I’ll be glad to help you contact Mr. Holmes.” Parker takes the handcuffs and places them on John. 

“Is this really necessary?” John is ruffled at being cuffed again.

“I have my orders sir and until they are counter mandated I have to follow them.”

They exit the safe house and are walking toward a black saloon that gleams in the full moonlight. Parker is holding John’s left elbow as he topples over to the street, a blossom of bright red obliterates his chest. 

“Parker! Parker!” John quickly touches his pulse point seeking signs of life. Nothing. “Shit.”

The driver’s side window shatters and John knows he’s in trouble. There is a sniper above somewhere, but with no sound reverb to give them away, John is a fish in a barrel. John digs for the key to the cuffs. Finding them he starts moving crouched low and goes away from the car. Keeping to the shadows and looking for impenetrable cover. There above him walking across rooftops is the extremely visible sniper.

(-_-)

Cindy is monitoring the Sasha device. “Guys, Guys. The tracker is on the move.”

Nick goes down to get Dave and Scout upstairs.

They give Scout coordinates for the location and Scout is dispatched to engage the Homeless Network to help John in any way possible.

“How the hell do you think he got away from Mycroft’s men?” Nick asks.

“Whatever he did, he’s moving pretty fast, must have commandeered some wheels.” Dave commented.

“Scout will be in touch once the Homeless Network contacts John. We have triangulation from Serpent’s Tooth. We are on top of John,” Dave said. “We have people following, Moriarty is going down.”

(-_-)

Sherlock is being a bad boy and Moriarty is very upset with him. Sherlock smirks and remains as defiant as he can be. He’d found little ways to sabotage all commands the Master gives. Slowing his responses is only the first of his discoveries. If he concentrates on the command prior to the one given he can screw up his reaction. 

“You think your little tricks will keep me from controlling you. Think again, Sherlock. I will have you eating out of my hand. I will have you slobbering at my feet.” Moriarty is his usual bastardy self.

“I have no doubt that you will attempt these things.” Sherlock said from the floor where Moriarty has chained him. “There will be nothing but rebellion on my part. Your megalomania may bend me but you will find I’m not easily broken.”

Moriarty looks down at his prisoner. He knows that the mind he had hoped to bring to his side as a partner in murder, mayhem and world domination was beyond his reach. Watson is the problem. If he’d gotten to Sherlock first, corrupted him, made him someone capable of the logic of death and destruction things would be different. Watson is the problem, who was supposed to have been neutralized by L. Watson who keeps slipping through his nets, who won’t die. Moriarty leaves his prisoner and walks away. He shakes his web, tells everyone, everywhere that there is a price on Dr. John Watson’s head. Several large fortunes await the person bringing Watson to him. Alive if possible, dead if applicable, but he must be identifiable by simple observation. Sending the word out he smiles a malicious crooked smirk. With so much on the line someone was sure to bring Watson to his door.

(-_-)

John is doing just fine. He has connected with Serpent’s Tooth. They have deep pockets and eyes and ears where ever cameras and sensors exist. The Homeless Network is second to none and following the sniper. Moriarty’s web is flapping in the breeze. Everyone is zeroing in on the asshole and John wants desperately to be the one to take him out. 

Dangerous Captain John Watson, Three Continents’ John Watson, Ghost Force Agent 1013 is wading into the fray and there will be no stopping him. Once and for all Moriarty will be removed as a threat to Sherlock. 

“Cindy, can you hear me.” John’s speaking knowing that his micro earwig will transmit via his mobile. 

“We got you John. We’ve also got a location for Moriarty. I’m sending coordinates to your smart mobile. We have boots on the ground; Serpent’s Tooth has associated with White ops agents working with us. The Homeless Network is infiltrating the perimeter. Even some of Mycroft’s people have finally caught up.”

“Sounds like a plan. White Ops?”

“White Ops are a league of ex – special agents that work with Serpents Tooth to run operations for the good guys,” replies Cindy. 

John is busy maneuvering into position. He knows that this is going to be a tough extraction.

A woman dressed in black approaches. 

“Watson.” The woman’s voice is a calm contralto. “Cutter here,” she says offering a black gloved hand. She shakes with a firm but not overly aggressive grip.

Cutter is well armed and equipped with night vision goggles. She uses sign language to her people, both men and woman to spread out, directs her point people to move out.

“You might want to use this,” Cutter brought a strange looking weapon from a ruck sack on her back and a pair of night vision goggles. 

It was a very unusual weapon, one that John had never seen before. “Just what the hell is this?”

“It’s a D.E.W., a direct energy weapon. Set it to 6 to incapacitate, to 12 to kill. We don’t like leaving ordinance that can be traced and deaths look more like natural causes. So it’s harder to determine just what the hell has happened after a mission.”

“Fuck all, phasers!” John couldn’t help but stare in awe at the weapon in his hand.

“Are you ready Watson?” Cutter was already in motion.

“Yes. Yes. Your people have been briefed about the situation?”

“We are totally prepared.”

John is suddenly much more confident that this will end well. That Sherlock would be safe, warm and alive in his arms soon.

(-_-)

Sherlock lay fully clothed on the bed. His eyes stared straight up. He is not restrained. Soft tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Quietly the warm tears slide gently down his alabaster cheeks. 

Moriarty took a small piece of paper with his distinctive style of handwriting scrawled in a brief note. He pinned the paper onto Sherlock’s lapel and smoothed the paper down.

“There you go my sweet. There you go.” He said in a sweet whisper.

(-_-)

The raiding party entered the enclosure. Serpent’s Tooth took down the power and disengaged all security in the building. This is going to be easy, too easy.

In the total darkness all of Moriarty’s people were easily dispatched, the D.E.W. Weapons emit flashes of light and a humming noise to incapacitate. 

“He’s here,” a woman spoke from her communications device, “second floor, East side corner room.”

John rushes to the location. “Can we get the lights back on? Thanks team, good work,” he says to everyone in the hallway as he makes the stairs. 

“Lights coming up,” someone spoke. Everyone moved their night vision goggles up and out of the way.

John entered the large room. Several of Cutter’s people were examining the body on the bed. They looked nervous.

“We have an ambulance waiting outside. I’ve sent for a stretcher so we can transport him immediately,” said the closest individual. “This was on his lapel.” He gave John a small note.

It read: Oops, sorry John, I think I’ve broken him! JM

John came up onto the bed. Sherlock was conscious. His breathing is breathy. His eyes pin pricks, he looks to be in a euphoric state. 

“I’m waiting for John,” Sherlock whispers. “I’m sorry John.” An injection site is clearly visible on Sherlock's arm. “I tried to stop them, there were too many. I’m sorry John. I’m waiting for John.” The litany continues on and on. Sherlock is disoriented and distant, not aware of John’s presence. Still John scoops him up and holds him closely as they wait for the stretcher. 

“Its okay, Sherlock. I’m here now. We’re going to sort you out. It's going to be okay.” He knows of Sherlock's past drug usage and he knows that this can be ameliorated soon. This is just another of Moriarty's sick attempts at dividing Sherlock and John. Nothing and no one will ever do that. 

 

A/N  
D.E.W.s are actual weapons in experimental phase. Maybe phasers are in our future.  
Your comments no matter how small are very much desirable and appreciated.


	12. Holes in his History

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Sherlock recuperates from Moriarty's attempted drug over dose, John has the 'talk' about the holes in his history. It seems John's heart is firmly entrenched in that history. Will Sherlock turn away from John? Or will the data bring them ever closer?

Sherlock was rushed to hospital to find out what he'd been administered and undergo detox. John was constantly at his side. Mycroft having finally given in to the fated union of his brother and the dangerous man he loved, had given his blessing. Once out of danger Sherlock was moved to a high security 'hospital' where he could rehab and recover from the near fatal dose.

(-_-)  


John had never seen a hospital with luxury suites, level 10 security and a queen sized bed in the room that looked more like a posh resort than what it was, a safe haven for Sherlock to find his way back to John.

John lay abed. Sherlock snuggled close, sleeping soundly. He knew that now was the time and place to have the 'talk' with Sherlock about the holes in his history. It wasn't something he told many people, mostly because they didn't have the security clearance, but also because his heart was intertwined with the terrible history of his service. The story had to be told so that it couldn't be used against them in the future. It might be something that Sherlock wouldn't want to hear, but John felt that their relationship was stronger now. Stronger since John had seen Sherlock in the throes of his drug induced state and not been put off by it. Moriarty probably thought that he'd given Sherlock a fatal dose, but in reality it was something that he'd tried in his 'wilder' stages of young adulthood. So what would have killed someone who's body wasn't accustomed to the drug, did knock Sherlock on his ass and did push him towards the deep end of nearly dieing, but it hadn't killed him. Thank the skies above. The drugs made him weak and vulnerable and John was sure that Sherlock would never want to do drugs again, because of the sadness he had seen in John's eyes. Sad to see Sherlock's brilliant mind so incapacitated and useless. But the drug had been forced upon him and everyone knew that. Sherlock swore to John early in their relationship that the whole drugs thing was definitely in his past.

A chime at the door and John knew that a full English was waiting for them. He nudged Sherlock into the pillows and went to the door, opening it and pulling in the cart with breakfast on it.

“Up, you lay – a – bed. Get your skinny arse up and get ready to be force fed.” John threw a pillow at the still pretending to be sleeping form cocooned in the blankets.

Sherlock moaned and groaned and stretched his long, lanky self like some mop-top hairless cat that desperately needed to find the loo.

“What time is it?” Sherlock opened both crystal grey/blue eyes that flashed silver and laser – like focused on his John.

“The same time as it was yesterday, you wretched beastie. Breakfast comes round at 8 AM whether you are up or not. Now get over here and eat some of this delicious food.”

Sherlock got up starkers and John grabbed a bath towel he kept at the bedside and pulled it on to the too thin hips and did a pass through knot. Sherlock proceeded to the small table over by the windows and plunked down. He picked up a piece of toast and spread a spoon full of honey on it.

“Did you know that you are consuming the life's work of twelve bees in that one spoon of honey?” John asked as lifted Sherlock's plate to fill it from the plates on the cart.

“John, I know that you have something to tell me and that its been bothering you for a long time. I'm ready to hear whatever has got you so worked up.” Sherlock munched his toast and gave John his undivided attention.

“Of course you are.” John said and took a calming breath. He set his fork down and took center stage. “Most of this is classified, even at your level of clearance. But I can't, in all honesty, not tell you my tale. You're apart of my life now and what affects me will touch you. I don't want Moriarty to use this information against us.” John looked down at his plate for just a moment to gather his courage. He knew that there was always a chance that the relationship might go south if he told Sherlock about the holes in his history.

“John, I'm prepared to listen with an open mind. Give me the chance to do that for you. Your history shouldn't divide us. It is, after all history. It shouldn't have any sway over our lives now.” Sherlock placed his hand over John's dominate left hand and squeezed it reassuringly.

John took a deep breath and gathered his courage. “I was a doctor in the service, but because of my marksman skills I was recruited to a special, elite organization to do Intel directed sniper work. I refused this assignment consistently. This was off the grid work that was deeply in the gray areas of combat. It was nothing I wanted to have anything to do with, ever.

There was a Yank captain, Charles Champion from Delta force. Chuck was the best of the best and he singled me out to work with him. I resisted his attempts to recruit me. The Hippocratic Oath and all, I was a doctor first and foremost. But Chuck was charming, charismatic, intelligent and brought me over to the dark side, as he liked to call it, of assassination.”

John looked into Sherlock's eyes. They were analyzing, deducing and dissecting his every word. But there was that small quirky smile on his lovely mouth. The one he only produced for John.

“He seduced you, made you his lover and 'turned you' against your overall desires to not be a part of the assignment.

“Yes, yes he did.” John continued now, no turning back. “Our Intel was supposed to vet each individual over a prolonged period of time. This was controversial activity that I normally would not condone. But we knew certain individuals were masterminding attacks and informing assassins on their side too. Chuck was an odd bird. Brilliant, but he could be caustic as well as off – putting if you weren't on board with his agenda.

“He took you to his bed and you fell deeply in love with him.” Sherlock interjected. “You did things that you normally wouldn't do. In times of war many men are often pressed to act against their own moral code.”

Mind reading was one of Sherlock's many additional abilities and he could read John like an open book.

“Yes.” John breathed.

“That was then, John. Your past relationship has no relevance on us now, here.” Sherlock tilted his head a bit and touched John's face gently. “You know that I don't feel it is a betrayal of what we have.” Sherlock's statement of fact did not seem to easy John's feelings.

John's face took on a ruined look. The lines of care and concern around his eyes and mouth deepened. “If only it were just a relationship.” He said, the tone of his voice dropped an octave and his eyes became shiny with moisture.

“Tell me.” Sherlock's baritone voice was comfortable and non-judgmental.

John shook himself, a tremor that Sherlock was loath to see. Nothing and no one had ever affected John like this.

“We worked together. Our targets terminated on a regular basis, but everything was kept undercover. We couldn't jeopardize troops, nor ourselves. We were under everyone's radar. I never knew, never suspected that Chuck was more than just a great shooter, my lover and a highly valued member of the military elite forces. He was also a serial killer. What better place, what better position than an assassin, undercover, in a war zone for a serial killer. He was totally fucked up. And I didn't see it, maybe I didn't want to see it, Sherlock, but I was right there. Right there while he was killing people for his own purposes. Killing innocent people for his own pleasure.”

“You came to suspect something was wrong,” Sherlock stated. “You couldn't continue not seeing.”

“Yes,” John let out a ragged breath of relief. Finally able to divulge a stain upon his heart that he had carried too long alone. “I was going to contact our people back at base camp. I was going to find out what the hell was going on. I was a wreck as we were out together on a mission and he waited till we were far afield. I didn't hear anything, I felt the bullet shatter my scapula and damage my left shoulder severely. But it wasn't a kill shot. I lay there bleeding out slowly. I knew it was him. It would take a crack shot to hit me at the boarder of my body armor but at an angle that would do the most damage. He shot me and left me to bleed out on a mountain pass. I lucked out when a passing American patrol found me. I was to be a mystery, a British soldier out on the boarder of the fire zone. Shot and left for dead.”

Sherlock didn't turn away, his silver/grey eyes searching John's face, looking into his soul.

“At first I was implicated and it was a piss of a mess. He'd been taking out his targets as well as people who weren't in anyway connected with the insurgents. I was eventually cleared. But the program was shoved so far under the rug that no one would ever find the evidence of it. I invalided home. Never to speak of this again. Never to know what happened to Champion. I was told by contacts that I knew inside the system he got away without a trace. The PTSD became too much to bear and I despaired of ever getting rid of the guilt.”

“Lucky for me, I found a mad – as – a – hatter younger man that fed me adrenaline and all the take – away I could manage. I fell in love with him and I worried that the holes in my history would show up because he could deduce the hell out of anyone, even me. So I buried that part of my life deep and covered it over with ice and apathy, trying so hard to forget and to forgive myself for being a fool.”

“So he's still out there and does he know that you lived?” Sherlock stood and looked out the window at the well kept gardens outside.

“He's still out there.” John turned slightly in his chair to better view Sherlock's face. “I wanted our relationship to be on firmer ground before I told you. But I fear that Moriarty has found my sanitized records somewhere and that he would tell you the story and I'd rather you heard it from me. What I did was on the cusp of being morally or ethically condonable by normal standards, I rationalized my actions then, but I let my emotions blind me to the reality of monster I slept with.”

Sherlock turned toward John. “I don't know if you've noticed but normal isn't who I am or what I do. I understand your desire to use your innate talents to bring a messy war to an earlier end. You are a doctor and a soldier and sometimes those two parts of you are at war with each other.” He took John by the hand and pulled him close. “Always you amaze me, John. You did what you did, you held your secret from me, from Mycroft. How it must have hurt to be betrayed by someone you loved. I promise you that this doesn't alter what we are. If anything it codifies my admiration and adoration of your strength and stealth. You never disappoint me and I love you for that.” Sherlock pulled John into his arms and hugged him to his heart.

John sank into the embrace as if a great weight was taken from his soul. Tears formed at the corners of his eyes. Gliding down his cheeks to moisten Sherlock's chest. Sherlock held him all the tighter.

In his heart Sherlock pledged that he would find this 'Chuck' and bring him to justice, Holmes’s justice.

(-_-)  


The very next day as John was taking a shower while Sherlock took a turn in the garden, Sherlock speed dialed Mycroft's number.

“What causes you to actual call, brother?” Mycroft didn't sound all that surprised.

“I've sent a short report to Anthea. I'd like you to look into this matter giving it your highest priority. You will have to involve your American contacts as this is in regards to a great deal of sanitized cross national information. I want everything you can find as soon as possible.”

“I take it that you are actually asking for assistance in a problem. How delightful. And what can I expect in terms of a reciprocal action?”

“You can ask anything of me. I will concede to any request.”

There is a pregnant silence. “I see. I will have my people right on it then. Please give my best to John.” Sherlock rang off, sighed deeply. Walking energetically back to his room, his mind was already bringing the full brilliance of his Mind Palace to bear on the problem. John had been nearly killed, disgraced and brought to the edge of emotional breakdown by Champion, who was a known serial killer and he was second on Sherlock's short list. Moriarty being the first.

Sherlock contacted his programing subculture, Serpent's Tooth. The world wide conglomeration of master computer manipulators and his Homeless Network immediately. These two groups were his way into the international web of counter intelligence and underground information. Mycroft had his uses, but his contacts and connections were mainly in the power chambers of governmental hierarchies. Of course he had his own spies and intelligence personnel. Most of them were capable of traversing the legalities of world law. His networks though, were capable of anything and everything that needed to be done to make things work to garner the knowledge he needed.

Moriarty and Champion were going down. Sherlock would not let anyone endanger John further. John was a dangerous man. His dangerous man. And no one would dare to even attempt to harm him. He was going to make it quite clear and extremely evident Sherlock Holmes would not tolerated anyone hurting his John.

(-_-)  


Moriarty was miffed and you didn't miff Himself and keep breathing. His temper tantrum had destroyed his up – scale digs and reduced his staff to quivering globs of humanity.

Moran stood well away from his master. Knowing all too well that the 'boss' could go ballistic on his ass as well as anyone else's. Moran held the memory stick in his left hand. Knowing that when Moriarty lost steam he would want the information ASAP. Jim threw himself onto his wrecked leather couch and puffed out an exasperated breath.

“Sir, I have the data you were looking for. Our overseas contacts have found the man you want.”

Moriarty turned his dark eyes onto Moran and even Moran could feel his spine weaken at the power behind his crazy glare.

Moriarty held out his hand and the memory stick was there immediately.

“So we've located Champion, finally. How soon can we get him here? I'm going to read this sanitized report and I want him here now.”

“He's on the other side of the world.” Moran interjected.

“I don't care if he's on the Moon. Did you hear me???” Moriarty shouted so loudly that the air around him vibrated with the force.

“Yes, Sir. It will be done.” Moran left the room and made sure that the house underlings knew that the disaster that was the living room needed to be restored to near perfection yesterday. That would not go over too well with any of them.

(-_-)  


Champion was indeed on the other side of the world doing what he loved best; killing with complete anonymity and precise purpose. He was a predator's predator. Hunting his favorite game, the easily captured and just as easily killed human species. He was quite literally amazed when he found people approaching him. Not run of the mill, ordinary people, but the denizens of the dark side that he inhabited. He was being summoned. He was being plied with gifts and words of praise and finally with the promise of a real treat. A female voice emanated from his cell phone in sultry tones that spoke of the depravity of her soul.

“Mister Moriarty would like you to immediately fly to London. He'd like to reunited you with an old friend and lover, Captain John H. Watson. I can have your complete itinerary brought to you within ten minutes, a private jet is waiting on the tarmac,” the voice said.

“Sounds wonderful.” Champion said “Will I have the pleasure of your company?” He was not one to be coy or cloister his feelings or needs.

“I'll be waiting for you,” said the voice. There was threat as well as promise in her tone.

Champion broke down his sniper rifle and packed it carefully in its case. Things were looking up. Watson? He'd thought that he'd been dead these many years. Wouldn't it be good to get together again. Just like old times, he thought.

(-_-)  


John wasn't aware of the mass of Intel and the huge unexpected global disquiet that was set in motion when Sherlock's, Mycroft's and Moriarty's people all converged to capture the whereabouts of Champion.

The world knew nothing Moriarty's menace and even less about the monster that Moriarty would bring to bear, to put an end to John Watson and to kill the heart of one Consulting Detective. Jim was sure if he could have John Watson tortured and killed in front of Sherlock that the detective would suffer a mental break down that would destroy him. He's thought the over dose would have done the trick. But it was fine, it was all fine. Jim was nothing if not patient, NOT! He would have his pound of flesh, the slow torture of Watson, Sherlock's Mind Place in complete devastation and a new serial killer to play with. How great was that? He chuckled to himself and danced a little happy dance. He was so mad...so very fucking mad.

(-_-)  


Sherlock was getting better day by day and working on some cold cases that he said Lestrade had procured for him. He seemed totally engaged. John felt good to see him back at work. He was like a man possessed and wasn't that what and who Sherlock was?


	13. Death's Dominion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The best laid plans of John and Sherlock while up against Moriarty and his minions.

Mycroft’s minions, Sherlock’s homeless network and his vast computer hackers and crackers network ‘Serpent’s Tooth’ focused on the destruction Moriarty and Champion. It was crucial to these disparate groups achieve their goal. Moreover, as they rushed toward their endeavor, John Watson was slowly going out of his fricking mind.

“Sherlock you are well and truly healed. We don’t need to stay here any longer. Let’s go back to Baker Street. I want to go home.”

They had been in the high security ‘hospital’ for nearly three weeks and for some unknown reason, Mister Sherlock Holmes was entirely okay with that. 

“John you are always telling me to rest, relax, eat more, sleep more, now that I’m taking your advice you seem utterly unhappy.” Sherlock smiled as he peered over his laptop to look into John’s eyes.

“I am very, VERY, appreciative of your increased libido, believe me, Sherlock, but we need to be out there looking for those crazies and getting them entirely dead.”

“Truthfully, John, I chose to be here because I can protect you here. We WILL be going home. I haven’t been entirely idle. I’ve set up snares, traps and elaborate schemes. I’m working very hard so soon we can walk out that door and take up the hunt.”

“It can’t be soon enough for me, love. I’m starting to go round the bend. Really. And I do hope these elaborate schemes don’t involve us getting captured, killed, and/or drugged or all of the above?”

Sherlock stood and held out his arms. John took the few steps into those waiting arms and accepted the full body hug offered. 

“You know so well how to tame my heart, Sherlock. So show me these plans and why haven’t I been in the loop? You know how it agitates me to be out of the loop. Bad boy.”

John pulled up a chair and sat next to Sherlock as he put the computer between them and brought up ‘Operation Looking Glass’. John couldn’t be mad with Sherlock, but put upon; he could feel put upon.

This operation was delving deep into Moriarty’s web. Locally the homeless network was working overtime to provide Sherlock with information about Moriarty’s activities, but they were limited to the immediate vicinity. Serpent’s Tooth was international with ultra-programmers and players. They were capable of grander machinations. We are going after Moriarty where it hurts him most, in his financials and his reputation. Moriarty’s the one that no one dares name. Almost like a god among men, but pull the rug out from under him and he falls to the ground like anyone else.

Sherlock showed John diagrams, graphs and charts. His head was buzzing with all the data, until he threw up his hands in complete surrender. “Okay, I get it. This is all way beyond my headspace. You were correct in dealing with most of it by yourself. Is there anything that I can do to make things move along at a quicker pace?”

“I think I can think of a couple of things you could help me with.” Sherlock said pulling John closer as he mangled his jumper with his long fingered right hand. His left hand brought John’s hands to his already warming and solidifying crotch, which John could tell was in desperate need of further Watson attention.

“My god, I believe I’ve created a sex crazed monster.” John murmured into Sherlock’s ear.

“Ah, but I’m your sex crazed monster, John.” Sherlock smirked.

“There is that.” John got out before Sherlock stood him up and spun him onto the bed, their bed. John proceeded to render him totally insensate and Sherlock, bless him, let John do whatever the hell he wanted to.

(-_-)

In the satisfied time after their coupling, John ruminated about Op LG as Sherlock played the part of the little spoon. “Through the Looking Glass, are we going down the Rabbit hole with Alice? This sounds like a Holmesian playdate if I’ve ever heard of one.”

“Serpent’s Tooth is starting to lay down the ground work for a massive attack on all Moriarty’s holdings. We’ve discovered where Champion is located and making sure, we can box him in at a moment’s notice. Now the fun stuff starts. I’m glad I’ve been giving you acting lessons, because this is going to be your BAFTA award winning role.”

“I can hardly wait.” John replied as he cuddled Sherlock tighter. Being the big spoon had its advantages.

(-_-)

John Watson stood in front of Moriarty. He’d waltzed right into his main sinister complex and stood pretty straight and tall for a short man. He smiled at Jim and took a seat on the very expensive leather chair facing his host.

“So without a weapon, with the balls of steel that I know you possess you come to my lair. You looking for me, Johnny boy?”

“I’ve come in peace, Moriarty. I come bearing gifts and asking for small favors.” 

“What can you possibly offer me that I don’t already own?”

“I can give you Sherlock Holmes and by doing so, put Mycroft in your pocket as well.” John said calmly and with no deception showing from his weathered features.

“So trouble in paradise. I thought that you and Sherlly boy were best pals, crime fighting colleagues and hot in bed together?” Jim smirked and let his eyes roam over the doctor/soldier. Open season for both now it appeared.

“It seems I’ve outlived my usefulness. The Holmes’ discard their toys when then find them boring. So I’m out and the next one is in. I’m not going to go without leaving a mark. I can tell you exactly how to trap the famous Sherlock Holmes.

Jim’s eyes were bright and they swiveled in his head as he contemplated his good fortune, but was there ever a gift Trojan horse you could trust?

“And what is it you want from little old me?” Jim actually straightened his tie and palmed the edges of his hair.

“I want first shot at Champion. Sherlock has set his sights on the bastard. He wants to know what the challenge of a serial killer lover would be.”

Jim’s eyebrows take a turn up into the stratosphere. “Wasn’t Champion a former lover or yours?” He queries with fabricated concern.

“The operative word is former. He left me for dead in the desert. When I didn’t die, I was left in a shite-storm of geopolitical problems as everyone assumed that we were working together and I got all the blame for a string of serial murders, while he walked away as free as you please.”

“I’m not really privy to Mister Champion’s agenda, but I am interested in your offer of giving up Sherlock. He must have really ticked you off?”

“He left me for dead too.” John said with a blank expression on his face. “There’s nothing there anymore. So you can reap the reward and help me with my plan to kill Champion or I can walk out of here with nothing gained, nothing lost and do my own thing.” 

Jim skimmed his small hands over his immaculate West Wood suit as he eyed the former lover of Sherlock Holmes. This smacked of treason, was Watson just being plotty here? Could the thick-as-thieves lovers really have broken up?

“You want proof, yeah?” John said as he stood. “I know for a fact that Holmes has found out where Champion is staying and is there now trying to seduce him. If you want proof. Do you research.”

Moriarty turned to his desk. It had enumerable communication devices on it. He reached for his mobile, enabled with face-to-face video options and dialed Champion’s number. He placed the mobile on speaker.

(-_-)

Champion came into his posh hotel suite; Moriarty had been generous so far in his dealings with the serial murderer. He threw his card key on the table with fresh flowers on it and moved toward the bedroom, taking his suit jacket off as he entered.

“Ah a floor show; I’m glad I was patient.” Sherlock Holmes lay draped across the king sized bed. Taking up most of it with his long and lanky frame. “Watson said you were something of an exhibitionist. With your physique, I can see why. Please do continue, don’t be shy on my account. I’m somewhat of a voyeur, myself.” 

Champion continued, tossing his jacket onto a chair while unbuttoning his shirt and pulling it out of his slacks. 

“So we finally meet. THE Sherlock Holmes, Johnny’s whore. I’d assumed you’d be a bit lovelier. He always was a fall guy for a pretty face. You’re hideous does he put a sack over your head before he fucks you?”

“Not earning points here, Champion. I did come with hopes that I could shag you into yesterday. I may still do that just for the pleasure of seeing your face as you swallow your rather reprehensible words.”

“I don’t think so. I don’t do Johnny’s sloppy seconds. He never was a memorable lover. Watson was always just a game piece to make my illegal activities look legit. Who would question the honor and reliability of Captain John Watson? Who indeed?”

Sherlock moved like quicksilver off the bed, holding a taser device over Champion’s carotid artery. There was a dirty smile on his lips as he looked into Champion’s eyes and saw his image there. Then he compressed the trigger and the charge went straight through Champion’s neck. He convulsed and crumpled to the floor.

“You should be glad I have need of your body, or you would be lying at the bottom of the Thames right now with only the slimy bottom to fill your filthy mouth.” Sherlock kicked the body over so he could use zip ties on the wrists and ankles of the killer. “Not to worry, there will be plenty of time later to make you regret every single word that you’ve said about John Watson.” The venom in Sherlock’s voice was evident and if he pulled the zip ties too tight, if Champion lost his hands and feet due to no circulation, who would care, really?

(-_-)

The mobile rang and rang. 

“Hello.” Sherlock Holmes’ face with a wry grin on it filled the rather large screen of the mobile. “How my I assist you?” Sherlock chortled a bit.

“So Champion is under your spell, or have you just finished fornicating him to death?” Moriarty said with his fairy tale face laced with arsenic.

“Why all of the above,” replied Sherlock. “All of the above. So nice of you to inquire Jim. I can call you Jim can’t I? We’ve been so good for each other. I feel we are going to be close.”

“So I hear that you and Johnny boy have had a falling out? I guess I can take it that he’s up for grabs?” Moriarty looked bemused and his dark eyes gleamed with something that looked very much like evil.

“You can have him, the bastard’s not worth a sodding quid to me. Oh and tell him that if he wants Champion, I’ve got him. That should make him happy. He wanted to kill him. I’m afraid I’ve got a few experiments to perform before I feed him to the fishes. He wasn’t very interested in being my bitch, but I’m not one to force the issue. No, wait I am.” Sherlock hung up the phone.

Moriarty turned to John, his face took on a shiny resolve of intense interest. “So how are you going to give me the Holmes’ brothers? In addition, would you care to become one of my close personal agents? The rewards can be quite invigorating. Not to mention being on the bosses good side can be a pleasurable position.” Jim smiled like a great white shark in bloody water.

“Since you don’t really have Champion any more. I don’t know that we have anything to barter with. Holmes will kill him, given time. So I’m done here.”

Moriarty looked hurt (if a Komodo dragon could feel pain). Moving closer to John, he positioned himself between John and the exit.

“Wait a few minutes, John. I know we’ve been opposed to one another before. Why not dispose of the Holmes’ and Champion together? Why not join forces with me and be at my side. I can provide all the dark adventures that Sherlock did and pay you quite handsomely as well. Think about it. Revenge on the two men who have screwed with your life and the beginning of a new life; one with me.”

John felt the beginnings of change in his heart. Jim watched his micro expressions move through resistance, confusion, acknowledgment and finally acceptance.

“How would you even begin to trust me?” John asked with concern on his face.

“Bring me the heads of Champion, Mycroft and Sherlock. Bring those to me and I will trust the hell out of you.” Jim smiled and reached out to touch John’s hand.

“Done.” John said with a touch of darkness in his heart and a demon in his view.


	14. Dancing in the Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John teaches Sherlock Tai Chi. Sherlock teaches Moriarty how to be dramatic. Operation 'Looking Glass' begins and ends with Sherlock smiling like a Cheshire cat. And there are no white rabbits in sight. Only Mycroft twirling his umbrella. Enjoy.

“Sherlock’s homeless network arrived on schedule and Champion was removed to a more secluded facility. Now the dance began and Sherlock loved to dance. The intricate plan that Sherlock had put into play was forming and frothing per desired outcome. Sherlock knew that John would play his part marvelously. The only fly in the ointment was the bat-shite crazy mental capacity of Moriarty. He could be so unpredictable. That just made the game so much more intense and, yes, exciting. When you play with THE consulting criminal of the 21st century, you played to win or you didn’t play at all. Sherlock smiled and watched as his people began their preparations. Life was just so Christmas right now, he could hardly stand it.

(-_-)

Night had fallen and John still lingered at the little bed sit he had rented for just this purpose. All eyes were on him. Mycroft and his minions, Moriarty and his minions and, of course, Sherlock and his networks which by far were the more intense of the three. He waited. Mediated on his breathing and practiced his Tai Chi. He’d taught Sherlock how to meditate too and it had done wonders for the consulting detective. He had the focus of super train running down a single track. If that didn’t guarantee gargantuan sex and deductions that plastered you against the wall, well nothing else did. Eventually it would give Sherlock a better ability to protect himself in sticky situations too. Tai Chi, shown to be of health benefits, was also an intense marshal art that was the best self-defense that John could think of for Sherlock to know. Unless, of course, you were up against the bat-shite insane criminal mastermind of the world. Then everything was ups for grabs.

He thought about Sherlock. How he would have to sleep alone tonight and maybe for more nights until this game was over. He missed that tall drink of water already and it hadn’t been that long since they had lay side by side. Sherlock’s young face had captivated him from the first time he’d seen him. John had lived his life on the edge; a life John had been sure would not encompass old age. Now here he was, not regretting a thing for he’d found the man who gave him such happiness, such joy. All he desired was to be back at 221B. Back home. Back in the arms of his lover, companion, best friend and hottest bed partner, he’d ever thought to shag. How did he get so lucky?

A burn phone on the dresser chimed. Show time. John put on his coat, shouldered his carryall and dug into his pocket for his own phone. He dialed up the app that would let him get a taxi to his door in minutes. He settled the butterflies in his stomach and steeled himself for the performance of his life.

(-_-)

The old mirror factory on the edge of town was the rendezvous point. The mirrors added an edge of through-the-looking-glass drama to the prepared encounter between everyone involved. Sherlock was beginning to get into producing the ersatz high drama that Moriarty demanded. The mirror factory was just the place to bring Moriarty’s game to its final dance.

John entered the factory from the North. There was low-level lighting at various points that lead to a central room. Sherlock sat in huge chair on a raised dais. At his feet was the Champion, bound and gagged, he looked like someone had been using his skin to test the efficacy of oranges in a sock for inflicting pain while leaving the tell tail evidence behind. His bruised and battered body didn’t bother John at all. No threat there.

“So you found the place after all.” Sherlock admonished is former lover. “Didn’t think you had the brain power to accomplish that.” Sherlock used his foot to kick Champion towards John. “That’s all you wanted,” Sherlock said as he shifted casually in his throne.

“Actually, I’ve joined forces with Moriarty. We’ve become great pals. All I have to do is kill you and your asinine brother and I’m Aces with old Jim-boy.”

“You think you can do that? With your abbreviated brain and the thought process of slime mold?” Sherlock smirked at John his eyes alight with mockish contempt.

(-_-)

Moriarty watched transfixed from his closed circuit vantage point in his private suite. John moved as if suspended in water. Smooth, fluid, deadly. Champion was not even in the game. John merely yanked Sherlock from his throne with one quick wrench. An almost negligible tap to his throat and another to his temple. Sherlock lay limp at John’s feet. John turned looking over his shoulder at Moriarty’s well-hidden camera. He grimaced and grabbed the collar of Champion and Holmes, dragging them deeper into the factory’s dark interiors. Away from this particular camera, but there were others. Many others.

John was heart-less, efficient and diabolical. He’d brought a carryall with him and he retrieved it from its hiding place outside the facility. John used zip ties to incapacitate Holmes. He put on protect clothing, gloves and face mask. Laying down a tarp, he placed the serial murderer on its pristine surface. With surgical precision, he dispatched Champion. Laying him out like an expertly cut chicken. The severed head fit perfectly into a waiting bag for medical waste.

Moriarty was impressed as he watched the ex-army surgeon use his skills to dismember the serial killer quickly and with minimal blood splatter.

Now John pulled Holmes onto the bloody surface of his killing tarp. Fishing into the detective’s pocket, he produced Holmes’ mobile. He took numerous photos and then sent one to Mycroft’s number with a brief text. Then he sent the photo to Jame’s mobile as well. 

“Impressive.” Moriarty whispered to no one at all. Then looked as another text came from Holmes’ mobile to his.

[Changed my mind, Moriarty. I want 5 million for each of the Holmes’ heads. Deliver to me ASAP. You know where I am. No money and I will let them live to bugger you to an early grave. You have twenty minutes to comply.]

“Ho – Ho. The doctor shows his true colors. Welcome to the Dark Side Dr. Watson.” Moriarty tapped an intercom and called his forces to move further into the factory. “Two can play at this game, John. I can do the double – double cross and still get everything I want without paying a cent to you.” Jim laughed, too loud and too full of himself. As he stood, smoothing out his West Wood suit and heading for his armored transport.  
(-¬_-)  
Within minutes, Moriarty was stepping into the aged mirror factory with its resident detritus, fractal shards of mirror giving the place a glittery, sharp and fatal look. Finally, his chance to destroy Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. Smiling like the magpie come to garner his bright objects, Moriarty had his people stand at the ready. He wore a wire and at his code word, they would be inside taking care of Moriarty’s business. Moriarty stepped through the hanging strips of heavy plastic sheeting that probably held out the weather at one time.  
“So Moriarty, are your people just outside holding all my money in trucks waiting for me to disappear on the horizon with? Did you not get my text? I’m pretty sure I was very succinct.” John sat on a commandeered packing crate amidst the carnage of his prior kill. Sherlock Holmes lying in a pool of Champion’s blood.  
“Oh I got your text, Johnny Boy. I know that you ‘think’ that you are a few steps ahead of me. Yet you forget who you are up against here. I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have and I’ve got my strands of toxic web everywhere. I’ve so many fingers in so many pies; it is really an embarrassment of obscene riches. Connections, corruptions, confiscated power. I’m more than Mister Sex; I’m the Master in the term Master Mind.”  
John didn’t smile at Moriarty’s levity. “You probably think that you’ve got the upper hand here, Moriarty. You probably feel that you are totally in control of this situation and the lives of the people in this room?”  
Mycroft entered the room from a side entrance. Twirling his umbrella in a jaunty manner. Not showing fear in the face of mad men nor his brother lying prone in a pool of coagulating blood. “Gentlemen, with the exception of you Moriarty. I don’t believe that appellation has ever applied to you.”  
“Oh this is grand, Johnny. I have everything I’ve ever wanted here in this room. The Holmes brothers and the Doctor that brought them to their knees for me. Delicious. I will make sure that you are killed quickly, Johnny. My thanks for work well done.”  
John stood to his full height. His eyes gleaming with a fevered light of truth. “Mycroft. I think it’s time, don’t you?”  
“Quite right, John. Dance macabre.” Mycroft intoned Sherlock’s code words. The lights blinked twice before coming back to on position. The homeless network, Mycroft’s minions and Serpent’s Tooth were confirming the green light.  
Sherlock stood the zip ties that supposedly held him mere props. Bloodied but otherwise okay, he smirked at Moriarty. “So this is how the ‘Master Mind’ of twenty-first century is eradicated from entire world.” It wasn’t a question. “John, how are we doing?”  
John had an ear bud and concealed mic that let him keep in touch with everyone. “Operation LG is early hours, the outer perimeters are neutralized. Cyber-attack draining down Moriarty’s assets and terminating his connections. Everything seems in order.” John approached the devil amongst them.  
“You can count the minutes of your freedom now, Moriarty. Your house of cards is on its way out.”  
Moriarty was looking just a bit perturbed, but still feisty. “I still have you murdering Champion in cold blood, Johnny Boy. It is all on video. Even if you manage to take me, out. I will take you with me.”

“Did I tell you that Sherlock did a favor for the director Guillermo del Toro once? He was very grateful. Very, very grateful. Said he’d be quite happy to write, produce and direct…the death of Champion, a serial killers final hour. I think it has a shot at an Oscar for best noir short, don’t you Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s minions came forward and took charge of Moriarty. He was unceremoniously hand cuffed and carted off. His flummoxed unbelievability his default setting.

John came up to Sherlock, pulling him down by the lapel for a brief kiss. 

“I think we have important work yet do to, John. We can save the celebratory shag for later, thank you.” Mycroft said as his ever-present assistant, current name unknown, came into view. Her continuous texting was indicative of the fluidity of the plan as it moved forward.

Sherlock glared at Mycroft. “I have given you THE criminal of the 21st century. I’ve wrapped him up and placed tracer detonations on his many web strands. Within the next seventy-two hours, he and his tenacious co-conspirators will be in your custody. I think you can allow my future husband a moment of elation.

“So this is how you are going to propose to me, you idiot?” John grabbed Sherlock’s bloody body and squeezed it with a ferocity that belied his small stature.

“John.” Sherlock looked into the eyes of the man he loved. “My John. Will you give me the pleasure of your continued company for the rest of our lives? Since you won’t allow anyone to scrape you from my side by any means available at any given time, I assumed that the question was unnecessary. That our union was a foregone conclusion. Have I deduced correctly?” Sherlock smiled like Cheshire cat. 

“Oh my. I do believe that we should exit this exchange forthwith, Anthea. Before we have to view the visual stimulus of my brother’s coitus with his doctor. Not something I think either of us will be able to unsee.”

Anthea merely nodded and stepped away allowing her superior to exit before her.

“We have to call Guillermo and tell him his footage was well received and invaluable for our purposes.” Sherlock said snuggling into John. Like a gigantic cheetah, he rubbed lovingly against John’s head.

“Now we are both going to need a very long shower.” John said as he felt himself coated with the theatrical blood that Sherlock had laid in.

“Why John that sounds like a marvelous idea. You are, without a doubt, a logistics genius. How long do you think it will take for us to get back to Baker Street?”

“I just happened to have a taxis waiting, outside this very factory.” John pulled away gently from his Sherlock. “Ready to whisk us away to our home, but I fear there is a lot we have to do. We have a large part to play in everything that is transpiring. I don’t think we will have enough time to do more than take a real ‘quick’ shower. Showering separately or neither of will ever get out of the water. Moriarty’s people are still out there. The web, though failing, is still formidable. Besides you don’t want your brother to have all the fun do you?”

“We can’t have that, can we John?” Sherlock grabbed John’s hand and dragged him toward the nearest exit. His longer stride left John running to keep up. 

“Shower first Sherlock.” John was grinning, laughing and shaking his head as Sherlock maneuvered him into the waiting taxi.

“John, prepare to be smothered in kisses. Prepare to have the quickest, cleanest, sexist shower of your lifetime.” Sherlock said with great enthusiasm. 

The ride to Baker Street took forever. Home was welcome after their time apart. Sherlock was true to his word and they were back in the game in no time at all. Sherlock was not bored for the duration. Mycroft was just a tad less stuffy in his own way. John watched and waited for the work to finalize, for their time to come again. Finally, rewarded with a full week in bed with Sherlock, John was ecstatic. Angelo catered the weeklong affair and Sherlock actually gained a few much need pounds during the lie in. 

Greater dangers lay ahead. Life was like that, just when you thought you’ve sewn up all the loose ends; when every dark space became illuminated shadows. That was when you really had to be careful. London was calling and she had Sherlock and John’s number. Always would. She was the only Lady they would both love. The only one that kept them enraptured, catapulting along and never, ever bored.

Thanks for reading my AU. I hope you will investigate many of my other works and my art. You may view my other Sherlock and non-fan art (dolls, Native American style items, dragons and such at my deviant art site) darkstar1013.deviantart.com Star


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